Air Raid Sirens in the Key of F Major
by polski-doodle
Summary: Roderich came to Vienna to write music. Instead, he started living a double life with a vibrant cast of characters. Psychotics, arsonists, Gestapo men, an ex-wife, prisoners-of-war, Nazi elites; the list could go on and on. Hiding his past and his present, Roderich is left to wonder how many more lives he can ruin before the war ends. {WWII Human AU. Further details inside.}
1. Treble Clef

**A/N:** **It really didn't take me long to start writing this story after** _ **Numbers from Poland.**_

 **For those of you who are back from** _ **Numbers,**_ **don't worry, my style hasn't changed. Thankfully, this story isn't going to be so damn confusing all the time. It'll be pretty straightforward, or at least I hope you think it is. If you're totally new to my writing, welcome! I love to see new usernames! And I like to see familiar ones, too.**

 **And please keep it in your wonderful hearts that a review is much appreciated from your panicky author. She's rather lonely and needs someone to fill her cold little heart.**

 **PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING BEFORE CONTINUING AND SENDING ME YOUR OPINIONS. THANK YOU.**

 **WARNING: This story is centered** _ **entirely**_ **on the Nazis and their culture. If this offends you, please don't read it. I'm not going to do that "constructive criticism only, please," thing, but seriously, don't send me history reports about why the Nazis were horrible or call me one myself. I'm really not cool with that. I've done my history research, I had relatives who fought for the Allies, I've cried watching** _ **The Boy in the Striped Pajamas**_ **and** _ **Naked Among Wolves,**_ **and I have never sympathized with Nazi anything.**

 **To tie any loose ends up, I do NOT support any of the ideals I may have written down in this story. It is the author's job to show what the characters are thinking. If I personally was telling you about the Nazis, you'd all be in for a total anger rant. But this isn't me. This is the story of an alcoholic composer who becomes entangled with the wrong crowd.**

 **Welcome to** _ **Air Raid Sirens in the Key of F Major.**_

 ** _[Edit 5/14: This story is now a year old. Enjoy dated writing. I promise new things will be coming soon.]_**

 **~Polski-Doodle**

No one wanted an alcoholic composer, especially the Führer.

The trouble with writing music is almost always having no idea what to put down on the paper. It could take weeks, months, even _years_ for the composer to find their inspiration and fire to put together a masterpiece. Unfortunately, Roderich's problem was quite the opposite. He could draw up pages and pages of music in one night, coming up with the most beautiful melodies the world had ever heard. To him, the sonatas and requiems he wrote down in those feverish nights were the works of God.

That is, until the morning afterwards. And suddenly the masterpieces became useless pages full of jumbled notes, ridiculous key changes, and clef signatures that looked like some odd hybrid between treble and bass, like he'd drawn one on top of the other.

Actually, now that Roderich was looking at the page, he had drawn the treble clef sloppily over the bass clef.

Roderich stared at the page for so long that the notes became even more tangled together – if that was even possible. He searched the child-like scribbles, looking for some sort of melody he could follow. Perhaps there was something hidden underneath the atrocity, a shred of that "beautiful" sonata Roderich vaguely remembered writing from the hazy night two days ago. When he was trying to sleep off his hangover the day before he started to think about it, hoping there really was something salvageable in the mess. But now that he'd looked over everything several times, he couldn't find a thing that even resembled music. It just looked like some drunken idiot had spilled ink all over the pricey composition book.

What was he going to do? He had a performance in ten days, and all he'd come up with was a bunch of inkblots, which were _not_ going to help. Considering this concert was for Goebbels and a few of his propaganda men, Roderich had to make up something that put the Reich in a good light. But all he'd been able to think about lately was the evil and wicked in the world, resulting in a lot of angry drinking. This in turn produced angry pieces.

Containing his true fury rather well, Roderich tore out the ruined page and crumpled it up. He put it in the basket beginning to overflow with similar wads of paper, where he kept every page until he deemed it completely useless. This earned him the title of hoarder in his family, but what did he care?

He gently closed the book, realizing that it was running out of pages – the front and back covers were nearly touching. Did he have the money to buy a new one? His last piece wasn't one of his Führer's favourites. Thankfully, that SS man, Himmler, had secretly slipped Roderich a few extra bills, saying that he rather liked the performance. But still, it wasn't enough to cover one man living in a tiny house on the outskirts of Vienna. Once upon a time, even a single piece paid enough for him to survive with room for luxuries, but something had happened after Germany invaded Poland.

Mainly the war.

But along with war comes rations, and with rations comes less money, and with less money comes total panic from an Austrian composer who doesn't want to find himself in prison.

Pulling open a drawer in his desk, he removed the small fistful of bills and began counting them, adding up expenses for necessary things in his head and praying he would have enough for a new notebook. Roderich chewed on his lip, knowing all too well that one stupid composition book could be his downfall; he was really stretching his _reichsmarks._ But he _needed_ this book. Without it, he wouldn't be able to write any more music, and without any new material he'd be shipped off to the Russian front. Music was the one thing that was keeping him out of the war.

 _I shouldn't waste my money on foolish things like beer,_ Roderich reminded himself, setting aside just enough of the bills to pay for his notebook – he was cutting it close, and that was if the Nazis were feeling generous at his next concert. _Remember, alcohol doesn't solve anything. It's a temporary solution, not a permanent one._

Roderich got up from his desk, snatching up a white shirt from where he'd tossed it over the foot of his bed lazily. Grabbing a black tie, he walked downstairs and began preparing for what he hoped could be a productive day. Once he'd turned on the radio for some background noise in this lonely home, Roderich slowly started to make himself look presentable. This meant shaving, which made him realize that he was going to have to buy a new razor soon. And then there was combing his chaotic ebony hair into less of a disaster, and looking into his own eyes in the mirror and trying to assure himself that his life wasn't going to hell. He'd never been too good at lying.

After buttoning up his shirt, he put on his tie with the little swastika pin placed right on the knot. Even though he was Hitler's favourite musician and nearly everyone knew it, he still had to show that he was a supporter of the Nazis. Personally, he didn't care for either side. Roderich's passion was music – not hailing some charismatic leader and thinking Jewish people were the root of all evil in the world. He really thought that the war was rather unnecessary.

But he could _never_ say anything about his feelings to anyone. That would be like asking to be taken to Mauthausen. And, although he didn't have much to live for besides his piano and Stradivarius, Roderich still valued his life.

Roderich went into the kitchen, grabbing his beloved little tin of coffee beans and a cooking pot. After filling the pot with dirty water, he spilled a pile of the beans into his hand, counting out exactly sixty of them. If it worked for Beethoven, it could work for him. Tossing the coffee beans into the pot, he turned on the burner and sat down at the table, beginning the long process of waiting for the water to boil and then wishing he hadn't sold his coffee pot for beer money.

For a while he just sat there and started to think about the world. He thought of all the men fighting in Africa, of all the men fighting in Russia, of the poor souls who'd already died. And then he realized that he could easily become one of them. If he didn't finish a piece in time or had a poor performance, Hitler didn't tend to be an understanding man. Roderich would be just another soldier, no longer an acclaimed musician. He put his head down on the kitchen table, trying not to dwell on his future too much.

"The Russians have been defeated in Leningrad," the voice on the radio announced. "In just a matter of hours they surrounded the city, resulting in yet another victory for our glorious Reich. It is predicted that we will be able to conquer all of Russia in mere months."

Roderich gave a rare smile, running a hand through his hair. All of Russia, in months? He didn't have a doubt that Nazi Germany was a force to be reckoned with, but Russia, a country known for power and superiority? Who were they kidding? Even a child wouldn't believe something so outlandish.

"Our soldiers are making great progress in Africa, with Rommel leading our men to victory," the suave voice added, even though everyone knew he was lying. After Hitler decided to attack Russia, Africa just went straight out of the picture. No one even thought of it anymore. To Roderich, it was a total joke. Then again, everything was a joke to him – war, people, his life.

Roderich went to go turn the radio off – he'd never taken any liking to propaganda – but stopped short. He hadn't been paying any attention to the music playing in the background. Normally, it was Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, but today they'd changed it up.

It was _his_ music.

He froze for a moment, listening intently to the song just to be sure it wasn't something that sounded similar to his own work. But sure enough, that was Roderich's own composition. Even worse, it seemed to be an actual recording of him performing it. Yes, it had to be, because he heard that slip-up where he'd twitched just a bit and the violin made a revolting noise that no one but Roderich seemed to hear. For weeks afterwards he'd worried about that one little mistake, wondering when the notice that he had been drafted was going to come – thankfully, it never did. He would never forget that error, as any mistake in front of Hitler himself was devastating.

Roderich thought over his performance for the Führer, never remembering any recording going on. Well, he didn't tend remember a lot of things, but he should have remembered something as big as a reel to reel machine and a microphone.

 _Unless, of course, they've done exactly what I think they've done,_ Roderich thought furiously, turning the radio off with much more force than he intended to. The box fell off of the table, hitting the floor with a loud slam. But Roderich was too caught up in his anger to notice anything else. _They have hidden microphones. What, are they trying to prove me being disloyal? I was in front of Hitler! I would never say something to his face! Why, the nerve of those SS men! I'm as loyal as any damn German soldier they can find! How could they even think of suggesting I might plot something against the Führer!_

Roderich took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He repeated this process a few times, clenching his hands into fists like he really could turn to violence. _No, it's probably just a precaution. After all, I am just a stranger from Vienna, in the same room as the leader of the Nazi Party. They just want to make sure I'm not trying to kill him. Even though they should know that I'm not out to murder anyone._

 _But then again, I didn't give them permission to use my work! I should call the Führer!_

Roderich grabbed the phone, about ready to ask the operator to connect him to Hitler's private line. _Why, I'll tell him everything and…And what? Get killed? Oh, Roderich, you can't talk like that to the leader of all of Germany!_

Roderich put the phone back and fell back in his chair, arms crossed like a child. He hated it when things went on behind his back – and this was no exception. Would they even pay him extra for publication rights? No, probably not. They were just going to use him until he was completely wasted and couldn't make anymore music for their "glorious Reich." And he knew what came next – Russia. He was bound to freeze to death on the snow covered streets of Moscow.

He got the horrible image of his own death in his mind, a blossom of red spreading out over the snow beneath him. Roderich could almost feel the sharp winds tearing into his grey uniform. Would anyone even bother to come and retrieve his body?

After all, no one wants an alcoholic composer.

But oh, will they use him.


	2. Adagio

Roderich had always been a rather spacey person – never focusing on anything, paying little to no attention to details, daydreaming, he'd done it all. But even he couldn't help but notice the rusty stain on the sidewalk and the bits of broken glass scattered like confetti. It was glaring evidence of the Nazi regime at its worst, on display in the streets of Vienna for everyone to see. They were so proud of their actions that they didn't even bother to clean up disaster and left it to the people who didn't want their city to look like a scene out of a murder novel.

Clutching the new little book closer to his chest, Roderich stepped around the shattered glass and carried on like he'd seen nothing. Grim images of _Kristallnacht_ came to mind, but he forced them back. Instead he focused his thoughts on what his next composition would be. Would he go with something like the standard, national pride filled song, a sort of " _Deutschland Über Alles"_ of his own? Or perhaps he'd come up with something totally unique. Whatever he decided on, he had to figure a melody out, and fast.

 _Maybe something the children can easily understand,_ Roderich thought as he walked by a schoolyard. _After all, if they're using my music for propaganda I might as well go along with it. But what do children like?_

He paused for a moment, watching a group of young boys in Deutsches Jungvolk uniform run about the field, each of them with a red bandana tied loosely to their wrists. Figuring he might get some inspiration from a children's game, he leaned against the fence and opened his composition book. Everything with their game was hard to follow for Roderich – it all went so fast he couldn't keep up. But slowly he began to understand that when the red bandana was torn from someone's wrist, their "life" was gone and they had to play dead. Taking someone's life seemed to be a rather celebratory event, as many of the boys would start cheering and making rude comments towards the now "dead" man.

 _I never would've done such a thing when I was their age. Then again, I really didn't have any friends, and even if I did, Vati was working me to death. But still, doesn't anyone think that maybe children shouldn't be taught to kill each other, even if it is just for fun? Is killing really something we should promote?_

"Hey, you're that music guy!" a little voice shouted, nearly giving the Austrian a heart attack. He glanced down to see a young boy in uniform missing a red bandana from his wrist, his bright blue Aryan eyes gleaming.

He was the perfect poster child for Nazi Germany, a boy no more than ten.

"Hello to you too," Roderich said with a smile, giving him a little wave.

"You live by me, right? You're the one who plays the piano really late in the night, and my mama says she'd like to give you a piece of her mind," the boy chirped innocently. "Whatever that means."

Roderich felt his face go red – the only time he played piano late at night was when he was drunk. Thankfully, he restrained himself from the lure of his Stradivarius when intoxicated, but that didn't mean his piano skills were that of a master when he'd had one too many. "Tell your mother I'm sorry, I just have to practice for my concerts. I don't intend to be so…loud."

"Have you really met the Führer?" The boy's eyes lit up, his voice nearly jumping an octave out of excitement. Roderich found it rather amusing that children, especially young boys, always asked about Hitler before anything else.

"Met him? I've had lunch with the Führer," Roderich said, watching as the young boy somehow got even more wound up.

"Can you wait here? I have to go get some people!" He took off running towards the "battlefield," earning himself several snarky remarks about how he should be playing dead. But the boy ignored every word of it, telling them all something very animatedly and motioning to Roderich. Soon a group of young boys was gathered at the fence, asking Roderich a thousand questions about the Führer they had been taught to give their lives up for.

"Were you scared?" one of them called out, his fist full of red bandanas – a mass killer.

"Wouldn't you be? I was playing the violin in front of the leader of all of the Reich," Roderich replied, remembering the panic attack he'd had moments before his first ever performance. He somehow managed to hold the bow in his shaky hands and play without any major mistakes, but the whole experience was nerve-racking.

"Did he ever get angry with you?"

"There was this one time I told him that I preferred cats to dogs and we had what you might call an argument over which animal is more likeable. I let him win, of course."

"Do you know all of the secret military plans?" a younger looking boy asked, looking up at Roderich like he was some sort of hero.

Roderich laughed a bit, tucking his new composition book under his arm. "Oh, heavens no. I'm just some composer. He doesn't tell me anything about the military, except when talking about the victories of the Reich."

"Do you normally attract this much attention, Herr von Wolffe?"

Roderich sharply inhaled at the sound of his last name, praying he wasn't going to turn around to find a Gestapo man with handcuffs ready to drag him off to wherever it was they took people who committed serious crimes. He looked over at where the voice had come from, his heart all but stopping when he saw the black SS uniform. Every single recollection of the torturous methods he'd been told the Gestapo used sprang up, his chest growing so tight he could hardly breathe. But the man wasn't glaring at Roderich – he was smiling.

"Well, no, Herr…" Roderich froze, realizing he didn't know this man's name.

"Beilschmidt," the man said, extending his gloved hand. Roderich gently took it, hoping to God this wasn't some elaborate trap. The Gestapo was known for horrible things like that, making you think they weren't trying to take you away to a labour camp for anything, even a slip of the tongue. "Ludwig Beilschmidt, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Roderich von Wolffe. But I presume you already know who I am." He tried not to seem overly nervous, but who wouldn't be having a complete meltdown in front of a Gestapo _kriminalinspektor?_ They'd have to physically be made of Krupp's steel.

"Who doesn't? You're the only man I've ever met whose played violin for the Führer. And came back alive, for that matter." Ludwig's face became tinted with pink, his blue eyes looking down to the sidewalk. "I hate to admit that I had some questions of my own."

Roderich sighed with relief, realizing he was not going to be arrested. "I don't mind answering. I just hope I won't bore you to death."

"You can't do that when talking about the Führer!" one of the boys added. "He's the most exciting man in the world!"

"He spoke for me." Ludwig gave Roderich a sheepish grin, his sharp blue eyes twinkling.

 _Yet another perfect example of Aryan selection,_ Roderich noted, looking over Ludwig. _Blue eyes, blond hair, square jaw, smaller nose, could they have picked anyone better for the job?_

"Well, carry on. What do you want to ask me?" Roderich said, making a rolling gesture with his hand.

"What was it like to meet Reichsführer Himmler?" Ludwig's voice almost carried that child-like enthusiasm to it, quite a strange thing for a Gestapo man.

"He was just like you imagine – only more intimidating and thousands of times more polite. He's definitely the best paying out of the officials I've met. But he was one of those people who had to warm up to you. I guess that's what one gets from being a chicken farmer before moving up to Reichsführer," Roderich answered before remembering that the SS didn't like to be reminded their leader was once a farmer.

"And the Führer?" Ludwig asked, thankfully saying nothing about the farmer quip. "Was he as…you know…?"

"Terrifying? Being in a room with him is like being in a room with a wolf. I never know if he likes my music, if he hates it, if he wants me dead or shipped out to Russia, anything, really. He listens very closely, watching my every movement. But in the end, he's usually pleased and doesn't want me torn open."

"Has he ever killed a man in front of you?" one of the boys piped up, pushing his way through the crowd so he was right at the edge of the fence with Roderich.

"I've never seen anyone die in my life. And the Führer wouldn't do such a thing," Roderich hastily explained, wishing he could tell the boy that he'd heard the man order for a ghetto to be cleared and shipped out just because he liked the piece and was in a "good" mood. He'd never seen anyone die, but he'd been a direct factor in the deaths of many.

He was an involuntary murderer.

Roderich suddenly felt sick – and for the first time in a long while, it was not from alcohol. "I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me, but I have to finish something and can't talk for any longer," he said weakly, letting his gaze fall to the sidewalk. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Herr Beilschmidt."

"Same to you. I hope to see you again, maybe you can answer some more questions," Ludwig added.

"Maybe."

Roderich waited until Ludwig was out of sight before he took off running. His feet pounded against the pavement, sending sharp waves of pain up his legs that weren't used to such physical activity. But he carried on, trying to get away from the fact that he was a murderer.

* * *

There were a lot of things Elizabeta was still trying to get used to, and waking up in a stranger's bed was definitely on the top of the list. Sometimes she'd wake up and remember just fine, and other mornings were full of the short-lived fear that she'd been dragged off in the middle of the night by some strangely pale man. But once she saw his gentle smile, all of her worries washed away. That smile was the entire reason she'd fallen in love with the once battle-crazed colonel, now commandant of Stalag XVIII-A.

"Good morning, Frau Beilschmidt," Gilbert whispered, sleepy red eyes looking over his wife. He was quite fond of calling her Frau Beilschmidt, mostly because he loved claiming ownership over the beautiful woman. The Prussian was a very jealous person – he liked people to know that Elizabeta was _his_ wife.

"I swear, if you call me that one more time…" Elizabeta paused, trying to come up with a good threat.

"Oh, are you going to run off?" Gilbert flashed his adorable half smile. "Are you going to run back to that lazy _dummkopf_ and leave me all alone in my cold and miserable stalag? Will you just leave me with no one to love but the guards and the dogs? Must I turn to sin and bestiality to find some love in this world?" He got out of bed, pulling on his pants from where he'd left them on the floor. Taking a clean white shirt and uniform top from his closet, he went into the bathroom. "Whatever shall I do without my dear Elizabeta?" he called, mocking the voice of a Southern belle from the American films he secretly loved.

"You'll just have to move on with life," Elizabeta replied, propping herself up against the headboard. "And besides, there are plenty of other women out there. And guards."

"But darling, without you my life would be simply –" His southern accent was cut short by the phone ringing.

"Hello, this is Colonel Beilschmidt's secretary speaking," Elizabeta said as she picked up the receiver. She'd become so accustomed to answering the phone that she almost always used that line, even when she called her mother. "The colonel is busy at the moment, may I take a message?"

"How drunk is he?"

Elizabeta instantly loosened up, the corners of her lips flicking up into a faint smile. She loved that voice. "Hello, Ludwig. How are you?"

"I'm doing quite fine, actually. Now, is my brother really asleep, or is he trying to get out of something? I'm not calling to get him to work." Ludwig knew his older brother too well – most of the time the albino avoided any and all work.

"Hold on." Elizabeta covered the receiver with her hand. "Hey, Gilbert, Ludwig wants to talk to you."

"The hell does he want?" Gilbert shot back, his tone thankfully joking. He could get so mad at little things like his brother calling to say hello without much warning.

"I don't know, but it doesn't sound too important."

Gilbert groaned, appearing in the doorway a moment later. He took the phone from his wife's hand, rolling his eyes. "What do you want, brat?"

There was a long pause.

"...You really saw him?...Why would you talk to him? Don't you remember a thing called stranger danger?" Gilbert started pacing back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip like he did when he got furious. " _Nice?_ What sort of lies have they been feeding you in SS Land? Aren't you guys supposed to be mean?...Luddy, that man is nothing but a lustful, money stealing, pathetic son of a bitch! …Don't even start on his last name. I know it's not von Wolffe."

Elizabeta already knew who the man in question was before Gilbert said Roderich's last name. Gilbert's loathe-filled emphasis on "him" was a dead giveaway. He had it out for that musician. From the start, he'd been investigating Roderich's documents with Ludwig at his side, searching every little detail for some chink in the man's perfect armour. She found it all a bit excessive – but Gilbert never knew when to stop.

"I swear, I'd kill him right now if I wouldn't get court-martialed and shot...Keep an eye on him, okay? Don't be too creepy, though…Whatever. Just don't get caught up in the fact that he knows the Führer." And with that, Gilbert slammed the phone down and stormed off for the bathroom again.

"You know," Elizabeta started after some time of silence. "You really don't need to make such a fuss."

"I am going to make a fuss, whether you like it or not. There's just something about that man. Something's not right with him. I don't know what it is, but it has to do with his name. He must be a Goldstein or a Birnbaum. It's this feeling that I have, like when you know someone's watching you." Gilbert stepped out of the bathroom, trying to knot his tie with one hand and comb his white hair out with the other. "Not to mention that anyone who'd give you up has to be completely insane."

Elizabeta wanted to tell him everything. She knew all about Roderich – he'd put all of his trust into her. He'd told her everything about his past. And she remembered every word of it. Elizabeta could go right to Gestapo headquarters and get that man arrested. But there was some strange feeling keeping her from saying anything. It was something she'd never felt before, a sort of tugging at her heart when anyone even mentioned the musician. She just couldn't bring herself to tell Gilbert everything.

"He never was right in the head," Elizabeta sighed, getting out of bed. "He didn't pay attention to things, like he was lost in another world."

"Another Jewish world," Gilbert muttered under his breath. "Probably hid 'em right under your house and smuggled 'em to Switzerland when you weren't looking."

"I didn't say that. He's just a dreamer."

Gilbert pulled on his uniform jacket, giving Elizabeta a look he usually reserved for the prisoners that had been caught escaping. "All I'm saying is that if he doesn't want to find himself rotting in Mauthausen, he better get out of the country as fast as possible. Because, one day the Führer's going to start wondering about his little Beethoven's past, and then he's going to find everything. And I'm going to leave it at that." He gave her another glance as he left for the morning roll call, this time a bit softer. "Hurry up. It's lonely in my office."

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

* * *

For once, something was actually going right for Roderich.

He looked over the piece before him, barely readable in the dim lamplight. With a quick glance at the clock he realized it was three in the morning – no wonder it was so dark, he thought it was only seven p.m. still. Roderich must've gotten so caught up in his work that he hadn't noticed the sunset or all of the lights in his neighbours' houses go out.

Roderich grabbed the composition book, going over to his piano. Fearing all of his work was meaningless – he'd written almost the whole piece without even playing it – the tired musician put his hands to the ivory keys and began running through the his newest work, an untitled lullaby sounding tune he'd drawn up thinking about the children he'd met that morning and his what his own childhood had been like back in Salzburg. He played the piece over and over, his smile growing larger with each time.

His lullaby was perfect.

Roderich was going to live for another few weeks with real money in his hands.

He stood up, grabbing the book and slamming it closed. For a moment he paused and looked at the little book, barely able to contain his excitement. Although it wasn't exactly propaganda material, Goebbels was sure to love it. It was made for young children, after all, the most valuable resources to Germany.

"Oh, my God," Roderich whispered, clutching the book to his chest. "I'm not going to starve. I'm not going to go to war. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm _fine!_ They can't send me off to Africa! They can't send me off to Greece! Because, I'm not going to fight in their God forsaken war!"

Roderich put the book down on the piano, turning off the little lamp. He wandered upstairs in the darkness, imagining all the lavish things he was going to buy when he got his next paycheck. Perhaps a new scarf or a coat for the winter, and maybe a real coffee pot. The Austrian couldn't help but smile as he got into bed. He'd finally finished a piece, all because he watched a war game and thought about his childhood. Inspiration was such a spontaneous thing – and he loved it.

 _Oh, if only I had someone to tell,_ Roderich said to himself, looking out the window at the picturesque half-moon. _But Vati doesn't care, I don't have any real friends, and she's gone. I really ought to get myself a cat or something, and then I won't be so damn lonely._

 _I got it! I'll call my piece_ A Lonely Winter's Lullaby! _Oh, Roderich, you're so clever. It's such a shame that no one appreciates your genius. Well, they like my music, but that's different. I want someone who really appreciates my music, not just generally likes it. I want someone who knows what they're talking about, who can tell me what I've done wrong._

 _I want Elizabeta back._

Roderich screwed his eyes shut, trying to erase that horrible name from his mind. He hated to think about his ex-wife and the way she'd always listen intently when he played something for her. She was just so perfect for him – his soul mate. And then she had to go run off with a cocky little colonel, leaving Roderich all alone with no one to talk to.

 _I wonder what she's doing now,_ Roderich asked himself, forgetting all about his vows never to think of the woman again. _Does she even love that man, whatever his name is? Or was it just a spur of the moment thing? Whatever has happened, I hope she's alright. What is she going to do if he dies? Will she come crawling back to me? Oh, I doubt it. I can't be that lucky._

Roderich groaned loudly, wishing things wouldn't be so complicated. He pulled his blankets closer, looking out the window like it would give him some sort of answer. The night certainly was beautiful with its moon and sprinkling of stars, but it didn't solve any of his problems.

 _At least I've made it through today. And look, there was only one Gestapo incident, and it was a friendly one. Well, as friendly as a Gestapo man can be. And I got my piece done, and I'm not going to be sent off to Leningrad, and I'm never going to be forced to go back to Salzburg._

He didn't mean to hate his hometown. It was just that his father created so many bad memories of the place that Roderich subconsciously blocked out any good memories. Roderich's father was a hardened war hero who believed children were only good for one thing – work. And so he made his only child do literally everything, from cleaning up scraps of molten glass in their family's glasswork shop to going to get firewood in a blizzard. Every little job Roderich was told to do only made him want to leave Salzburg faster.

The only thing Roderich really cared for in the town was his father's grand piano. He'd practice on it day and night, able to play Chopin and Saint-Saens in a matter of weeks. His father told him he'd never get anywhere playing the piano, and one night got so fed up with Roderich's insistence that he was going to be a famous musician that he took an axe to the beautiful instrument and burned it piece by piece in the fireplace. Roderich screamed and begged him to stop, but his father didn't even care. He just kept shouting that "worthless music" was destroying his son, and that Roderich would never make it as a musician.

 _But look where I am now,_ Roderich laughed to himself. _I'm living off that "worthless" music. What do you think about that, Vati? I'm playing for the Führer himself! And what are you doing? Why, you're still working in that stupid glasswork shop telling everyone you can about when you fought off the Italians at Isonzo!_

 _And I'm trying not to waste all my money on alcohol and talking to myself._

 _I haven't gotten much farther, have I?_

Roderich buried his face in his pillow, letting the horrible memories of Salzburg drift far away from him. All he could focus on was the present, no matter how hard or terrifying it was. He just had to keep going, getting through life one day at a time.

* * *

 **A/N: Funny thing, the piano chopping up and throwing in the fire bit is a true story involving my great-grandfather. Only the piano was a trombone in the real thing, and it dealt with rival polka bands. I have the weirdest family...**

 **And about Roderich's last name - I'm not going to elaborate. The story will explain itself.**

 **Big thank you's to** Awenia **(you have no idea how much panic you saved me when you corrected me, thank you!)** exca314 **,** TrefleV **, the guest reviewer** Abc **,** FookinWangDoodle **(thanks for the heart attack, dear!) and my two returners who never fail to make me smile,** SoulEleri **and** Comix and Co **! My first story didn't get any reviews until the sixth chapter, and by the first chapter of this story I have reviews _and_ followers?! Thank you all so much!**

 **Maybe it's a sign this story is going to be a good one?**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	3. Irato

He took a step back, wiping his hands off on the rag he'd brought along. Although painting was minor work in the line of sabotage, he found it rather amusing. The faces of the Gestapo men, loyal citizens, and brainwashed Nazi children were always hilarious to watch when they found his words on the walls of their homes and businesses. Writing "horrible" messages on the wall was a hobby of his, something he did in his spare time much like how other men his age played cards or hung around the local bars howling at nearly any woman who walked by. But he, he was totally different from every other man. He liked to think it was because of his name, as he was named after a natural born rebellious spirit.

Basch Martin Luther Zwingli fit his name perfectly.

"What do you think?" he asked a sickly looking cat that limped out of the shadows. "Does it need something else?"

The cat hissed at him, golden eyes flickering in the faint lights. It yowled another warning before slinking off, turning its back on Basch like so many others had done.

"You're right, I definitely need to put a bigger swastika," Basch agreed, grabbing his brush again. He traced over the swastika he'd already painted, making the spider-like symbol from hell bolder.

"Looks good," he said, putting the lid back on the paint. He checked over his words once more, making sure he hadn't spelled anything wrong. The last time he did that, instead of infuriating the Gestapo it just made them laugh at the fact that he couldn't spell Luftwaffe.

"Hitler is killing your fathers," he read aloud, smiling at his work. Basch wanted to write so much more, but space was a big issue and paint cost an even larger one.

He didn't even react when the air raid sirens began wailing. Basch just grabbed the paint and walked away from the scene, humming a little song to himself.

The first bombs started dropping before he was even out of the alley, but he didn't mind. Basch was living a sort of life where he didn't really care if he was blown to pieces by a bomb. He wasn't suicidal, but he didn't value his life, either. Figuring the world would decide if it wanted Basch to keep living, he never went to a bomb shelter or even hid from the British planes. If they wanted him dead so badly, they could have him.

He was about to cross the street when a man rushed by, carrying a violin case and a notebook. Basch stumbled backwards, accidentally touching the man's coat with his paint covered hands. The saboteur tried to call out and warn the man, but then he realized that if the Gestapo finally decided to start doing something, he could just as easily blame that man as he could come up with some extravagant lie. He caught the warning before it could escape his throat, carrying on like nothing happened. Seeing the man with white streaks now on his coat bolt down the stairs to the bomb shelter, Basch's grin grew larger.

Scapegoats were wonderful.

Basch ran up the steps to his little home, tossing the paint can and brush under the porch through the broken step. He gently opened the door, slipping inside and locking it in an instant. The lights were all off, but the kitchen had obviously been cleaned from when he'd set out at four in the morning. Muttering a few curses to himself, Basch went to the sink and began the long process of scrubbing all the paint from his hands. A loud boom made him jump – the last bomb was closer than the rest had been. It was followed by a tell-tale little yelp from the only bedroom in the house.

"Hey, Lilli," he whispered as he walked into the bedroom, taking off his paint covered shirt and throwing it in a heap on the floor. "Are you alright?"

"Now that you came home I am," she replied, her voice trembling. She'd always been terrified of the air raids, but refused to leave Basch alone in the house. Basch was actually a bit happy she didn't go to the shelters with everyone else – if he died, she'd die, and they wouldn't have to be separated.

"I saw what you did in the kitchen. I told you that you didn't have to clean up. I'll do it when I get around to it," Basch sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Don't trouble yourself."

Lilli just whimpered in reply.

Basch crawled into bed next to her, pulling the little girl close to his chest. "It's going to be alright, the bombs aren't going to hit us. The Brits know I'm a good one."

"You say that so confidently. But my friend's cousin was just killed in an air raid last week," Lilli said, sharply inhaling as yet another explosion sounded off close to their home. "If it could happen to her, it can happen to us."

"It won't."

"What makes you say that?" Lilli looked up at him, her sea green eyes barely visible in the shred of moonlight that came in from their tiny window. Basch loved nights like this when she was close to him – it made him feel like he was a good brother and not the failure that he was.

"Because, as long as I'm here, you're going to be perfectly safe. I won't let anyone get to you," Basch said. "You'll be just fine."

Lilli snuggled closer to her brother, a contempt little grin on her adorable face. "You're going to get both of us killed some day, big brother. Not that I mind, of course. As long as you're happy, I'm happy."

"Don't say something like that. We're going to outlive this war, whether it likes it or not."

"Not if you keep going out and painting," Lilli added, her voice giving away how scared she truly was for her brother's sake. She'd never liked him working with the Underground, but normally she didn't voice her opinion or say anything so upfront.

"They haven't caught me yet." _And they won't catch me now,_ he said to himself, thinking of the poor man with the violin case. Basch felt a twinge of guilt, thinking about the man's reaction when the Gestapo showed up at his doorstep – but that wasn't his problem anymore.

"You're absolutely hopeless."

"I know I am. What do you think my mother said when I told her I wanted to go to Vienna to work in a gun shop? _'Oh, Basch, you're so hopeless!'_ " he mocked in a high pitched voice, making Lilli giggle. "' _Why can't my son just be a good boy and work in the boring old store? I ought to punish him for having real dreams! So what if he hates Geneva? Without Geneva he'd be dead! And what's this? He's adopted a little girl?! And they sleep in the same bed? Lord, Basch is going straight to Hell!"_

By now Lilli was in total hysterics, laughing so hard she was nearly crying. "Does your mother know you talk about her like that?" she gasped in between fits.

"I've said something along those lines to her face," Basch said rather smugly. It took a lot of courage to stand up to a woman who had a whip mounted above her fireplace and wasn't afraid to use it.

"And she didn't kill –" Lilli was cut short by another blast, so close to their home that the windows rattled. Even Basch couldn't resist flinching. In an instant that happy glow about her was gone, replaced by a scared tremble.

Basch sighed quietly as he stroked the girl's honey hair. "We probably ought to get to bed. You have school tomorrow, and I'm working late, so you'll have to stay here alone for a few hours more. Will you be alright by yourself for that long?"

Lilli nodded, burying her face in Basch's chest. "Can…can you sing me a lullaby again?"

"What one do you want?"

" _Good Evening and Goodnight,"_ she answered, snuggling closer to him as the high pitched whistle cut through the air, followed by an earsplitting bang.

 _"Good evening, goodnight,"_ Basch sang quietly, tensing up as yet another explosion shook their tiny home.

 _"Covered with roses,_

 _"Adorned with thorns,_

 _"Slip under the covers_

 _"Tomorrow, if it is God's will, will you wake again_

 _"Tomorrow, if it is God's will, will you wake again."_

The song was so dreadfully ironic Basch almost laughed out loud.

* * *

"Hello again," Ludwig said with a vague hint of a smile, his tired blue eyes flicking down to the case in Roderich's hands for just a moment.

"Good evening, Herr Beilschmidt." Roderich yawned, falling back against the wall next to the _kriminalinspektor._ It was the second time meeting with the Gestapo man in just a day, and this time around he wasn't so terrified. "I must ask, do you live nearby and I've never noticed you before?"

"I live just a few streets down from you, actually, on Hauptstrasse. But I just moved here a month ago, so you probably haven't seen me. My job keeps me busy most of the time and I'm hardly home. And the one night I do finally get a chance to sleep in my bed, there's an air raid." Ludwig laughed a bit, folding his arms over his massive chest.

"I just got to bed an hour ago, only to be woken up by the damned Brits again," Roderich huffed.

"What were you doing up so late?"

"Working." This time Roderich could actually answer the man without a hint of shame in his voice – he really was working, not drinking himself senseless or sobbing.

"On what?" Ludwig asked, stifling a yawn.

"This new piece I had to put together for the minister of propaganda, Herr Goebbels," Roderich explained, holding up his composition book as evidence. "You see, I wanted to draw up something that was rather prideful, but it ended up being a lullaby. And I just kind of went with it."

"Do you mind if I see it?"

Roderich handed him the book. "Be my guest. I don't know if you'll be able to read any of it," he said as Ludwig opened the cover. "My handwriting has always been horrible and seems to get worse the later I work."

"You wrote this?" Ludwig asked in complete astonishment.

"Ja, I wrote that. Who else would have such a sloppy signature?"

Ludwig looked over the page, then back at Roderich. "This is amazing."

"Well, I'm glad you think so. Now, if only I could get Herr Goebbels to think the same way."

"No," Ludwig said, turning the page. "This really is amazing that you can come up with a whole new piece. I can hardly figure out who I'm supposed to bring files to, and you can draw up things like this." Ludwig handed the book back to Roderich. "I envy you."

"For what?" Roderich tucked the composition book back under his arm. "For being a good-for-nothing musician who's likely to go broke in a few weeks? Believe me, you better stay a _kriminalinspektor._ "

"I'm jealous because you have a real talent. I don't really have anything to my name. What, I'm strong and a little bit above average in mathematic skills? I mean, you're actually getting somewhere with your talents. Me, I'm just being pushed around by my higher-ups, doing whatever they're telling me to do," Ludwig explained with a sigh.

"At least you're not going to freeze to death in Russia," Roderich added hopefully. "There's some good to come out of this."

Ludwig shook his head. "I'd rather be with my brother in Wolfsburg, but my father wanted me to join the Gestapo. Told me I was too smart to be just a regular old soldier. I don't think I'm that smart and all, but he had much bigger ambitions for me. And now my brother's the commandant of some stalag while I'm wandering around Vienna all day doing trivial things for my bosses. It's rather ironic – he being the screw-up of the family and failing nearly every class, yet he's in such a high position and I'm no better than a private, really."

"What stalag is he in?"

"I don't exactly remember the number, to be honest. It's over ten, if that helps any," Ludwig said, letting his eyes flick down to the violin case once more. He glanced back up at Roderich, appearing rather – if almost too – shy for a Gestapo man of his size.

"Would you like me to play for you?" Roderich asked.

"I didn't mean to trouble you. I'm just curious, that's all. You don't have to play," Ludwig stammered, holding up a hand to stop him.

"It's fine." Roderich propped up his leg, balancing his beloved Stradivarius' case on his knee. "Really, I've been itching to practice but hadn't found a chance yet. And this seems like the perfect time, ja?" He put the case down on the ground, holding up the violin. "Herr Beilschmidt, this is Marlene."

"You named your violin?"

Roderich flashed him a little grin. "When you have a Stradivarius, it's more of a relationship than an ownership. So it only seemed right that I would name her."

"She's a Stradivarius?" the _kriminalinspektor_ asked in a quiet voice. "You own a real Stradivarius?"

"Ja, this is the real thing. Her given name is Le Maurien, but I liked Marlene much better," Roderich explained, tucking the violin under his chin. "Do you have any requests?"

"Just play anything," was Ludwig's reply.

Roderich thought for a moment, secretly thinking of what his most impressive piece was – he loved showing off. "Would you like to hear the one you just saw?"

"If you would like to," Ludwig said with an eager nod.

Music has an amazing power, one that very few other things can claim to do. Before Roderich started his song, the bomb shelter was a chaotic mess of nervous whispers and crying children. But once he played that first B flat, everyone stopped whatever they were doing and turned to the musician. The whole room went absolutely silent, all eyes trained on Roderich.

He just closed his violet eyes, letting his hands do all the work for him. Roderich tended to play any instrument almost subconsciously, never realizing the piece was over until people were applauding. Even though he'd finalized this piece only a few hours ago, he felt as if he'd been playing it for years. The melody flowed through the bomb shelter, the dulled explosions from above making an odd, yet fitting, accompaniment.

Roderich smiled just a bit, still keeping his eyes closed. _A Lonely Winter's Lullaby_ was made to debut in front of Goebbels himself. And here he was in a bomb shelter with total strangers – dare he say _commoners_ – listening to something prepared for Nazi elites.

And he loved every second of it.

There was just something so much more appealing about playing for the common folk than men who could have him killed with just one word. Just the fact that he wasn't terrified of being brought out back and shot if he made a mistake was enough. But the people seemed to care so much more about his music. For the Führer and his men, it was simply entertainment, but for the people, it was something to take their minds away from the fact that there were enemy soldiers destroying their city.

When the first song ended, Roderich immediately started up another one. And then another. He kept playing every piece he could remember until the sirens stopped wailing and they were cleared to come out.

* * *

"Herr Commandant, almost all are present and accounted for," the sergeant-of-the-guard said, his voice laced with a knowing fear.

"Almost?" Gilbert echoed, raising a pale eyebrow.

The sergeant shifted uncomfortably. "Do I really have to say who's missing? I think you know, sir."

"It's not me this time, Colonel!" one of the more frustrating prisoners, Sadik, threw his tanned hand into the air and gave Gilbert a little wave. "I'm actually here on time with no complaints." The man standing next to Sadik elbowed him in the ribs, telling him something in Greek. Sadik nodded, giving him a hard slap on the back. "Heracles says that he was here on time too," he added, translating for the man.

"I wasn't suspecting either of you," Gilbert snarled, clenching his gloved hand into a fist. Sometimes he prayed that they'd finally allow him to kill someone.

"I'm here!" Raivis said in a tiny voice, his blue eyes gleaming with pride. "And this time I didn't even get in the wrong place!"

"That's very sweet. Now, where is your _'big brother?'"_

As if on some unheard cue, the door of Barrack Two slammed open, the most irritating of all the prisoners Gilbert had ever met sauntering out. He came over to where everyone was lined up, fiddling with the buckle on his belt. The infernal man didn't even stand at attention, but rather found it more interesting to put his hands in his coat pockets and look up at the grey sky.

"Colonel Braginsky, would you please stand at attention?" Gilbert hissed.

"I'm sorry, sir. You weren't looking for me, were you?" Ivan asked in a sleepy voice, running a hand through his disastrous blond hair. He flashed Gilbert a little smirk – that bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Just like when he'd spent the day throwing a baseball he borrowed from Alfred at the wall of the office, or when he'd torn a radio out of one of the staff cars and blared the BBC News while there were important officials visiting Stalag XVIII-A.

"Braginsky," the sergeant-of-the-guard muttered, marking off a name on his chart. "Herr Commandant, all present and accounted for."

"You're asking for solitary, Braginsky." Gilbert took a few steps forward, using all of his willpower not to punch the man's face in.

Ivan fluttered his eyelashes, putting a hand to his chest. "Oh, my, you'd put little old me in solitary confinement? And all because I was a just a bit late?"

"You've had four minor offenses in the past week, Colonel Braginsky," the sergeant reported, looking over his list. "One more automatically sends you to the cooler."

" _I've_ had four offenses? Now, what could I have done?" Ivan asked himself like he was totally unaware of his atrocious behavior.

"The first was gambling, the second was for climbing on the roof and shouting things at the panzer division, the third was for gluing pictures of pinup girls to the colonel's car, and the fourth was for being twenty minutes late today." The sergeant looked back up at Gilbert for approval.

"To be fair, sir, Eduard, Toris, Alfred, and Sadik helped with the pinup girls," Arthur – Gilbert's probably least hated of the intolerable men besides Raivis – admitted. "And I may have offered up some of my magazines as well."

"We got all of them from you, you dirty old man." Ivan started laughing, completely ignorant of the fact that Gilbert was ready to send the man to Mauthausen.

"Dirty old man! Dirty old man!" Alfred chanted, making faces at the blushing Briton.

"Will you stop?" Gilbert hissed. "If you don't stop this misbehaviour, I'm going to put all of you on a work detail in Wolfsburg with the farmers again!"

This only made Ivan laugh louder.

"Do you think this is funny, Braginsky?" Gilbert grabbed the man by the shirt, pulling him close. Ivan was obviously trying to stifle his hysterics, biting down hard on his lower lip.

"No, sir. This isn't funny at all." He hung his head in mock shame, trembling with silent laughter.

"Oh, so you won't think it's funny when I assign you to clean the rec hall all day, right?"

Ivan glanced up, his dark eyes losing their joking gleam. "What?"

"You heard me. You, Adnan, Jones, and Laurinaitis, you four are going to clean the rec hall until I tell you to stop. Even if you have to re-clean things," Gilbert ordered, a triumphant smile lighting up his face as Ivan's smug attitude faded away.

"Sir, can you tell me what I did wrong?" Toris asked in a scared voice, keeping his green eyes trained on the dirt. He and Raivis always seemed to be afraid of something and never even dared to go against the most ridiculous orders. Gilbert rather liked terrified prisoners.

"You're completely innocent, but I need someone somewhat responsible to watch those three. Just make sure they don't break anything. Dismissed," Gilbert sighed, wondering how long it would be until he could get those damn transfer papers through.

As he turned to go back towards the office he heard Sadik and Alfred start cussing Ivan out, their slurs accompanied with the sound of punches and slaps. But what did Gilbert care if Ivan was getting his face beaten in? That man was nothing more than a thorn in his side.

"What took you so long?" Elizabeta asked as Gilbert stepped inside, not even looking up from the papers in front of her.

"Ivan," Gilbert muttered, hanging his hat up on the coat rack. "The lazy son of a bitch was late to roll call, and then used the standard Ivan excuses." He went over to Elizabeta's desk, looking at whatever sort of report she was working on. "Any word on the transfers?"

"You've been rejected again. Face it, dear; Barrack Two just has too large of a reputation. Everyone in all of Germany knows that those men are nothing but trouble," Elizabeta said, signing something with Gilbert's initials.

"You're telling me, the person who has to put up with them every day? If it weren't for their constant escape attempts I'd move them as far away from the office as possible!"

Elizabeta glanced up for just a moment, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Why don't you just double the guard and move them?"

"Because they'd figure out a way to get out of here. They can do literally anything if they're all together, but to keep them even moderately under control they have to be all together. Now, did Ludwig's papers come in yet?" Gilbert asked, trying to change the subject before he got too furious and ended up breaking something.

Elizabeta nodded, handing him an envelope nearly the size of the prisoner-of-war handbook Gilbert never bothered reading. "I hope Roderich is really worth the struggle."

Gilbert took the envelope from her hands without a word of thanks, disappearing into his office with a slam of the door. Checking that the door was locked, he sat down at his cluttered desk and ripped the envelope open. He pulled out list after list of names, removing detailed reports and copies of birth certificates and addresses. Ludwig had really outdone himself this time. Several of the names were circled, some even with black x's – the ones matching up to Roderich and his family's stories. A devilish smile spread across Gilbert's face. Could this be his chance to finally crack Roderich von Wolffe?

He pulled out just one of the reports, a paper detailing one of the acclaimed musician's phone calls from back in 1933, this one being to a man listed as Christian Kleiner. Gilbert could almost hear Roderich's imagined whiny voice – he'd never actually heard the man speak – as he read. But soon he grew bored of the "polite" rambling, skipping immediately to the suspicious part Ludwig had already circled for him.

"You've done all you needed to, right?" Roderich had asked. Ludwig wrote and underlined beside the sentence the words "very scared here."

"Ja. You're good for tomorrow."

"Listen, I really need to thank you. Without you I'd be…Well, I don't want to say."

"It's no trouble. That's what I'm here for. Although, I'd never expected that someone like you –"

And the call ended abruptly. Ludwig's notes at the bottom said something about the end being rather suspicious, not like it was a mistake or something similar. And right before it went quiet he wrote that the man tapping the line had heard Roderich shush Christian Kleiner, whoever he was. Beneath all of his brother's notes was a list of possible things Roderich could be involved in, at least according to Ludwig. Black market activities, drugs, Communist sympathizer, and Gilbert's still prevalent accusation, that Roderich was a Jew.

"Hey, Commandant, what are you doing?"

Gilbert flinched, tucking the reports close to his chest out of instinct. He tore open a drawer and shoved the papers in, turning to find Heracles standing at his window. The Greek looked at him innocently with his tired green eyes, much like a child would.

"That was really good!" Raivis said, coming over to Heracles. He gave Raivis a confused look, shaking his head.

Raivis just smiled – Heracles couldn't understand German, English, or Russian. "I'm sorry, Herr Commandant, he didn't mean to scare you. We were just working on his German."

"Could you work on it somewhere _else?"_ Gilbert snapped, going to the window. "I'm trying to run a stalag here!"

"What is a stalag?" Heracles asked slowly, his dark eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"Get out of here," Gilbert ordered.

Heracles shook his head again. Could he not understand even basic words like "out?"

"Maybe if a real German helped us, Heracles could learn faster," Raivis suggested.

"Excuse you, I am a Prussian. And no, I'm not going to help some illiterate Greek learn German."

Raivis frowned, crossing his scrawny arms. "Then why don't you let Sadik come help us so Heracles can learn faster?"

"Listen, kid, you have two seconds to leave before I send you to solitary," Gilbert said, watching as Raivis instantly stopped arguing and took off towards the yard with Heracles in tow.

 _God,_ Gilbert thought, falling back in his chair. He pulled out all the reports again, dropping them in a messy stack on his desk. They hit the scratched mahogany with a dull thud, a painful reminder of how many pages he was going to have to go through. _Those Slavs must be desperate. How did they even let Galante into the army? He'd follow anyone's orders – enemy soldiers and children included. The little kid would do anything for me._

Gilbert stood up quickly, throwing open the window again. He scanned the yard for Raivis, thankful to find him scratching words in the dirt with a stick, Heracles standing beside him and asking endless amounts of questions the young soldier couldn't understand.

"Galante, Karpusi, my office, right now!"

* * *

 **A/N: It's a wonder I'm alive! Have any of you seen those tornadoes that have been tearing up America? Well, a few of those bastards thought it would be cool to try and touch down near my house. Don't worry, everything's okay, my house is fine, my school's fine, and nobody was hurt.**

 **So, the lullaby Basch sings? According to my father, Brahms wrote it. But I just remember my dad singing it to me as a little girl, along with Danny Boy, so I had to put it in here. And hey, it's German, so it works.**

 **Also, I know absolutely nothing about violins, being a flutist. If any of you find a violin error, please notify me at once. I'm going off Wikipedia and eHow, so my material isn't exactly the best.**

 **Big thank you to** Chizu5645 **,** harrietamidala1691 **, the guest** TooLazyToLogin **,** Abc **,** Patatemi **,** A Storm of Leaves **,** DemonStalker98 **,** EllaAwkward **, and 2/3 of the Holy Trio,** SoulEleri **and** Comix and Co **! Thank you guys so much for supporting my catastrophe of a fanfiction.**

 **Also, as a weird little note, Numbers from Poland got a lot of attention. Like, there were people reviewing and favouriting? I don't know, it's a little strange, but I'm cool with it.**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	4. Misterioso

"Herr Commandant, what does this mean?" Heracles pointed to a word on a faded flyer he'd pulled out of a stack of papers on the corner of Gilbert's desk that said colonel was too lazy to bother going through. Gilbert brushed him off, going back to his records. Heracles growled at him with a feral gleam in his eyes, shoving the paper in the Prussian's face. "What does it mean?" he demanded.

"Heracles, I'm really busy."

"What does it mean?"

"No. I am not telling you."

"Mean! Mean!" Heracles repeated, slamming his hand on the desk.

Gilbert held up just one of his many reports. "Do you see this? This is a paper that has to be filled out by tomorrow morning on how many guards I have stationed here, their full names, date of birth, spouses, ranks, and whatever the hell else the Reich absolutely _has_ to know about my prison camp! I do not have time to teach you German!"

Heracles rolled his green eyes impatiently. "I don't understand. What does word mean?" Once again he pointed to the word on the paper, blatantly ignoring the commandant's previous outburst.

"It means Jews," Gilbert answered, to which Heracles shook his head. Gilbert groaned and muttered a few curses the Greek thankfully couldn't understand, grabbing a clean piece of paper and a pencil. Taking the pencil in his left hand, he quickly drew a Star of David and the profile of a man with a huge nose and beard. "See, Jew?" He tapped the elongated nose with the tip of the pencil, and then pointed to the Star of David.

Heracles took the paper from him, studying Gilbert's pathetic attempts at drawing. "Oh. _EvraÍos_ ," he said, looking back up at Gilbert.

"Uh, ja. Whatever you just said. So, read the full sentence."

"Rid…Rid Germany of the… _EvraÍos."_ Heracles hung his head, hiding his face with his hands. "Sorry. Do not how to say word."

"Jews," Gilbert snarled. He'd lost all his patience for the German lessons two days, five hours, and exactly forty-three minutes ago, when they started with a basic word, _"raus."_ After twenty minutes of exaggerated gestures and enough screaming to put Hitler to shame, Gilbert finally resorted to drawing the actions or subjects out on paper. It was a sick tradeoff – Raivis was organizing the Roderich von Wolffe papers into a report for Gilbert, and he was stuck teaching Heracles basic German.

"Rid Germany of the Jews?" Heracles asked excitedly. "It say 'rid Germany of the Jews?'"

"Good, very good. Now, can you read that one?" Gilbert tapped the next sentence with his finger.

"They are the…cau…cause…of all bad?" he replied, looking up at him like an ecstatic puppy.

"Good job, Heracles," Raivis chirped, dropping a thin folder on the desk. "I finished my report, Herr Commandant."

Gilbert snatched up the scrawny thing, flipping through the few pages it held. He caught numerous Christian Kleiner conversations, a glimpse of a census, and two photos of some unnamed street. "This is all? This is everything you could find? There were two hundred-something papers in that envelope, and you only came up with fourteen?!" He slammed the folder back down, feeling the pent up rage from the frustrating German lessons slip into his words.

"Well, sir, it's just –"

"It's just what?! You wanted to make me suffer through an idiot like Heracles so you don't have to? You wanted to get time off from working? You wanted to look through all of the papers like the little Russian spy you are?! I should assign you to the most painful work detail I can imagine! I should lock you up in solitary! I should killyou!"

"P-p-please, sir, I really tried! But th-th-there was hardly anything of use t-t-to you in those l-l-letters," Raivis yelped, backing away from Gilbert with his hands held out defensively.

"Oh, would Ludwig Beilschmidt, the man who made it through Gestapo training in nearly record time because of his attention to detail, send me insignificant things?" Gilbert stood up, coming over to Raivis. He grabbed the boy by the collar of his uniform, holding up the report in his hand. "This is absolutely _everything_ you could find?!"

"Please, sir, I'm sorry! D-d-don't beat me!" Raivis pressed his back up against the wall, his whole body trembling in fear.

Gilbert dropped him, watching as the junior lieutenant held up his fists in an attempt at defending himself. From here he could see that the boy's knuckles were scarred, faded white lines running over the back of his hands in crisscross "x" shapes.

"Why would I do that?" Gilbert asked quietly, taking a few steps back. "Why…would you think that I would beat you?"

"Because when p-p-people get angry, th-th-they hit the w-w-weaker one!"

Gilbert meant to start lecturing the boy on how to make a proper report, he really did. But all of his attention was caught on that one sentence – when people get angry, they hit the weaker one. All Gilbert did was raise his voice, and Raivis immediately tried to protect himself. It was an unconscious reaction. He knew that when someone even vaguely started to yell, he was going to get smacked. And the scars on his hands proved it.

Heracles, not understanding what had been said but still knowing what was going on, got up from his chair at the front of Gilbert's desk and went over to the shaking soldier. He took Raivis in his arms, holding him close. For a moment he kept the boy close, saying nothing at all but meaning so much more.

"Who…hurt you?" he asked in his broken German, stroking the boy's honey hair.

"Everyone," Raivis whispered into Heracles' shoulder. "E-e-everyone hurts the weaker one."

Heracles didn't even try to respond.

"Raivis?" Gilbert asked gently. He never called a prisoner by their first name, except for when he was livid or drunk. "Did…did something happen? Is there something I can do?"

Gilbert didn't know why he was asking. There was a horrible feeling welling up inside of him – concern. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he really cared for that tiny junior lieutenant. It was something about him, something so lovable. Perhaps it was from all of Gilbert's years taking care of his little brother that made him want to shelter Raivis, even though he was a Russian, the worst of them all.

"N-n-nothing happened that you c-c-can change," Raivis replied, wiping at his innocent blue eyes with the heel of his hand. He took a shaky breath, stepping away from Heracles and standing at attention. "I'm sorry, Herr Commandant, I didn't mean to panic like that. It's a horrible instinct of mine."

"You can be at ease, you know. And don't apologize for something you can't control. But you're not like this because of any of the men here, correct? Braginsky didn't do this to you?"

"Oh, no, sir!" Raivis answered almost too quickly. "Colonel Braginsky takes good care of me. Not as good as he does with Toris, but I'm not supposed to say things like that because he doesn't like us to think that he's picking favourites when it's obvious Toris is the favourite. He even lets Toris sleep in his office during the winter, where it's a lot warmer, but I'm not complaining, because Heracles or Sadik usually let me sleep with them. I know you think Colonel is manipulative and irritating, but he's like a big brother to us. Without him we'd all be miserable."

Gilbert looked at the report in his hand, thumbing through the pages again. "I see. I must apologize, then. I overreacted. I mean, you obviously put a lot of work into this. It was wrong of me to call it worthless."

"But I could've done better," Raivis said, hanging his head.

"And you could've done worse. This is perfectly fine, Galante."

Raivis looked up, a little smile on his face. "Thank you, Herr Commandant. I'll try harder next time."

"Dismissed."

Raivis gave him a salute, grabbing the hopelessly confused Heracles and motioning for him to follow. Heracles half saluted, half yawned, walking out of the office after Raivis. Gilbert watched the two leave, noticing something he'd either never seen or never recognized peeking out of the collar of Raivis' uniform.

A slender scar snaked its way up the boy's neck, disappearing into his golden hair.

There was something he wasn't telling Gilbert.

* * *

 _Three gunshots echoed out in the quiet forest, one for each of them. Roderich watched with muted curiosity as the bodies slumped to the snowy ground, red spilling out around them. Ludwig shouted a command and six dogs leapt forward, ravaging the corpses._

 _"You see," Ludwig said, putting the pistol in Roderich's hand. He glanced over at the ravenous dogs with an unfitting grin before continuing. "That's all you have to do to kill a Jew. Just one little flick of your finger makes the world better."_

 _"That's all you have to do to kill anyone," Roderich corrected. He looked over the weapon in his hands, the hazy memory of a gun his father owned coming to mind. The last time he'd ever held a pistol was when he was six – he'd broken into his father's war chest, somehow loaded the small pistol inside, and killed his cat. Firearms didn't have a good place in his mind. "It's not just Jew that can be killed by guns."_

 _"But there's something much more satisfactory about it. The way they scream and beg and crawl on their knees just to catch a glimpse at survival, it's all like some wonderful production they put on before they die."_

 _"Wonderful?" Roderich echoed._

 _"Now, Roderich, make the world a better place," Ludwig ordered, motioning to three new people standing in front of him. A woman clutching her child's hand and a tall man were wide eyed and trembling, looking at Roderich with so much desperation in their eyes it was sickening. The dogs from earlier were circling around them like vultures, blood gleaming on their sharp fangs, waiting for someone to drop to the ground._

 _"Please, sir –" the man started to beg._

 _"Speak only when spoken to!" Ludwig snarled, making a little motion with his hands that the dogs took as the signal to jump the man. Soon he was lost in the pack, blood tainting the snow under the dogs' paws as they yipped and howled with murderous delight._

 _"You want me to kill one of them?" Roderich asked quietly, his words barely audible over the man's screams. He stole a glance at the dogs, his chest growing tight as he saw the woman holding the young child now, telling her something in a quick language – Russian? "I can't. You take the gun." He handed it over to Ludwig, who shoved it back into the musician's chest._

 _"Only one person in this whole forest right now is a Jew. Pick the right one. And I wouldn't hesitate. My dogs are hungry. They could kill the others before you get the chance."_

 _Roderich looked over the two of them remaining, searching for the tell-tale yellow stars. "Herr Beilschmidt, none of them are marked! What if I kill the wrong person?"_

 _"You haven't looked far enough. Someone here is marked." Ludwig smiled a wolf's smile, putting his hand over Roderich's. Confused, Roderich glanced at Ludwig's chest. It was void of a Star of David, covered in medals and patches and who-knows-what else. Ludwig's glittering eyes flicked downward for just a fraction of a second._

 _Roderich let his own eyes go down to his chest where the star was sewn on._

 _"They've…they've set me up!" Roderich dropped the gun, tearing off his coat. He threw it away from him like the star was poisonous, looking back up at Ludwig with that same repulsive fear in his eyes. "Someone's sewn this on my clothes! You've got to believe me, I am not a Jew!"_

 _"Then why is there still a star?" Ludwig poked Roderich's chest where the patch was stitched onto his shirt._

 _"This is all some plan to try and get me killed! I have plenty of enemies; someone has to hate me enough to want me dead!" Roderich sank to his knees, ripping at the star sewn onto his shirt. "I'm not a Jew. I'm not a Jew. I am not a Jew. You've got to understand, Herr Beilschmidt. Someone wants me dead."_

 _Ludwig knelt down next to him, his grin cold and mocking. He grabbed Roderich's collar, beginning to unbutton the man's shirt. "What you don't realize is that Jews may think they've slipped away, that they've hidden far from us, that no one will ever recognize them, but in the end, every one of them is marked. It's like a brand that the whole world can see, no matter how far they go to hide it." He gently took off Roderich's shirt, tapping the Star of David that was burned into the man's chest right below his collarbone. Roderich put a shameful hand over the little star, digging his fingers into his skin. "You can't escape, Roderich. No one can. Hitler knows everything. You may be able to avoid us for a time, but you are marked. We can find you."_

 _"I'm not a Jew. I never have been," Roderich snapped, tearing at the brand. "I am just another human being!"_

 _"That mark will never come off," Ludwig said, watching Roderich rip at himself until his chest was bleeding. He gestured to the trails of red running down Roderich's chest, the branches forming into a Star of David. Roderich tried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but the blood wasn't moving._

 _"I don't know what you've done to me, but I swear to God I never had that brand on my chest," Roderich said, looking up at Ludwig in a vain hope to find sympathy._

 _"It's in your blood. Just save yourself the dramatics." Ludwig put the pistol in Roderich's hand and grabbed him by the wrist, forcing his arm up until the barrel was touching his temple._

 _"No, you can't make me do this," Roderich whispered as Ludwig made him curl his finger around the trigger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the dogs walking towards him, the fur around their mouths stained red._

 _"Yes, I can. I am the Gestapo. We know no limits. I am doing what is necessary to protect the Fatherland from beasts like you." Ludwig tipped his black hat, the skull and crossbones gleaming in the sun. "That is why the Gestapo is here."_

 _"I'm not a beast! I'm a man, Ludwig! I'm just a man! But you, you've turned anyone who you don't like into some sort of monster to be feared by the public, when really we're all just humans! Stupid, worthless, lying, cheating, humans!" Roderich shouted at the top of his voice, clutching a hand over his bleeding chest. "So what if we're different? In the end we're all just miserable people! Religion shouldn't make me any different than you! I'm just as loyal of an Austrian as you are! I was born here, raised here, and I intend to die here!"_

 _"You know, my least favourite type of Jews has to be the loudmouthed ones."_

 _"My least favourite type of Germans has to be people like you! The perfect Aryan who thinks they can do whatever they feel like just because Hitler adores blond hair and blue eyes! You're no better than any man on this lowly earth, Ludwig. No better," Roderich snapped, earning himself a sharp slap to the face. The red-hot pain clouded his eyes, making the snowy scene become a catastrophe of colours. Ludwig started laughing as Roderich wiped the tears from his eyes with a bloody hand._

 _"I am better than some people. I am better than gypsies. I am better than Communists. I am better than Jews. I am better than you," Ludwig said, slowly beginning to make Roderich pull back on the trigger. "I've always wondered how you got be up there with the Führer. If he can't even recognize a filthy Jew, how can he lead a nation to victory?"_

 _And with that, he pulled the trigger._

* * *

"Hello? Herr von Wolffe? I would like to talk to you about a few things!"

Three knocks ripped the musician out of his restless sleep, throwing him back into the disaster that was his living room. Roderich opened his eyes to find not a snowy forest like he expected, but a field of sheet music and a coffee table. No longer was he kneeling on the cold ground with a Gestapo man in front of him, but rather curled up on his living room floor with his beloved Stradivarius resting nearby. Slowly he came to the realization that he was not dead and everything he'd just witnessed was nothing more than a nightmare, even though his collarbone was throbbing. He sat up, taking deep breaths to stop his racing heart.

"Herr von Wolffe? Are you home?" the stifled voice of Ludwig called from outside, accompanied by a few more knocks. He couldn't help but flinch – that man just forced him to kill himself moments ago. "I'd really like to talk to you!"

 _And I'd like to get seven hours of sleep without any nightmares or air raids, but we can't all have what we want, can we?_

Roderich got to his feet, rubbing his tired eyes. It was always like this before any major performance – he'd work all day and all night until he couldn't read the music anymore, and then fall asleep on the couch, somehow make it up to his bedroom without tripping down the stairs and breaking his neck, or, as it seemed to be this morning, just lie down on the floor? He didn't remember doing that last night. Then again, he did remember that everything was going atrociously and he'd given up on his music, so it made sense.

"Hello?" Roderich said sleepily as he opened the front door so he could see a thin sliver of the outside world. He was met with a black Gestapo uniform gleaming with medals.

"Are you…alright?" Ludwig asked, looking down at the dramatically smaller man hiding behind the door. "I heard shouting."

"Oh, ja, I'm fine," Roderich replied as he fully opened the door. _I must've been screaming in my sleep. That's lovely, he probably thinks I'm completely insane._ "I'm sorry I look so awful, I just woke up."

"Are you bleeding? Dear God, what happened?"

Roderich looked at his collarbone, a bit startled to find a large red spot on his chest. He tugged at his open collar, revealing a row of scratches and crescent moon shaped indents matching up to his fingernails. "This is just…" he faltered, trying to think of a reasonable lie. "I just caught myself on the corner of the cabinet when I came to get the door. There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"Are you really alright? You seem a little…out of it."

"I've only gotten three hours of sleep for the past two days, so I probably am extremely 'out of it.'" Roderich hid the bloodstain on his shirt with his hand, pushing up his glasses with the other. "So, what can I help you with?"

"I just have a few little questions for you. But I can come back later, as this really seems to be a bad time," Ludwig said, turning to go back to his car. Roderich caught a glimpse of the slightly worrying Luger on his belt, the metal glinting in the morning sun.

"No, it's fine. I'm already awake, you'll just have to excuse me while I go bandage myself up. Please, come in."

Roderich left the Gestapo man waiting in the front room, running upstairs to the small closet in the hallway and grabbing gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic. He took another glance at the claw marks over his pale skin, wincing at the memory of the nightmare. Ludwig had been the one to force Roderich to kill himself in the dream, and yet he easily invited him into his house.

 _Perhaps it was a bit of symbolism,_ Roderich thought as he came back downstairs. _Ludwig being Nazi Germany, myself being Austria. I'm woefully naïve and let the Germans come in, only to find that they're murdering anyone who doesn't fit their perfect ideal of a human._

 _Or maybe I'm just overly examining a nightmare._

"Can I help you?" Ludwig asked when Roderich walked into the front room with his hands full of medical supplies.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to do something," Roderich said as he went into the kitchen and set everything down on the counter. "But if you would like to help, I'd appreciate it."

"Here, sit down," Ludwig ordered, grabbing a washrag and soaking it with the antiseptic. Roderich followed the man's orders – he was scared to find out what would happen if he didn't. Ludwig came over to him, starting to unbutton Roderich's shirt.

"I'm perfectly capable of unbuttoning my own shirt." Roderich pushed Ludwig's hands away, the scene from the dream reappearing in his mind. He was a bit afraid that Ludwig would tear off his shirt and find a bloody Star of David burned into the musician's skin, even though he knew that everything was just a terrible nightmare.

Ludwig's face went red, his blue eyes sinking to the floor. "I'm terribly sorry, Herr von Wolffe, I wasn't thinking about how you might react to that. I'm just used to doing that with my brother. He's rather accident prone, so I often help patch him up."

"It's fine, I'm a bit sensitive about things," Roderich replied as he pulled the left half of his shirt down over his shoulder. Ludwig hesitated before starting to wipe at the scratches, but was soon over his shyness and seemed almost happy to work.

"Are you sure you caught yourself on something? This looks like an animal or a human did this." Ludwig looked up at Roderich. "Not that I'm judging you."

"Do you want the truth or another lie?"

"I'd like the truth."

Roderich took a deep breath. "You see, I had this dream. And in it, someone had set me up for the Gestapo. They sewed the Star of David to my coat and shirt, and burned it into my skin. I was trying to rip it off of me, and I guess I must've mimicked the motion in reality."

"I don't think anyone would ever set you up. Your records are flawless," Ludwig said to himself, grabbing a square of gauze and a roll of medical tape. "I don't want to seem like I'm constantly watching you – even though I am, being a _kriminalinspektor_ and all – but my brother makes me go through your records on a weekly basis. Actually, now that I think of it, he would be the one to set you up."

 _Why doesn't it surprise me that he's watching my every move? Just when I thought there might be one Gestapo man who wasn't completely insane, Ludwig went off and proved me wrong._

"Do I even know him? I can recall any other Beilschmidt except for you," Roderich said, listing off the small amount of people he knew in his head. There definitely wasn't another Beilschmidt in the mix.

"His name is Gilbert Beilschmidt, and he's the commandant of some stalag in Wolfsburg. He has a beautiful wife, Elizabeta."

Roderich felt his heart clench at the mention of her name. "He's _your_ brother?"

"So I'm guessing you remember him now? Did you go to the same school? I'm so sorry if you knew him when he was younger, he was an even bigger pain than he is now," Ludwig apologized, stepping back from Roderich. He paused to admire his handiwork before beginning to clean up – Roderich, on the other hand, could care less about the scratches.

"What do you know about Elizabeta?"

"Well, she likes it when I visit because I clean the whole office out of impulse, her family has money to burn, she used to live here in Vienna, and one time she was talking about a previous husband." Ludwig stopped, putting all the pieces together. He turned back to Roderich, his blue eyes losing their joking twinkle. "You wouldn't happen to be that husband, would you?"

"She was having an affair. Said I was 'too busy with the Führer to pay attention to her.' And then one morning she was just gone. I found out later that she ran off with a colonel, but I didn't imagine you'd be related to him," Roderich snapped, pulling his shirt back on.

Ludwig looked down at his perfectly polished boots, blushing once again. "I'm sorry, I've gone and made everything uncomfortable. I can understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore. I can imagine it's difficult to speak to the brother of the man who stole your wife."

"It's not you that I hate; it's just your brother."

"Everyone hates my brother."

"Evidently Elizabeta doesn't," Roderich muttered, making Ludwig smile. "So, what did you want to ask me?"

"Oh, right, I almost forgot. Where is the coat you were wearing a few nights ago, during the air raid?" Ludwig asked.

"On the hook by the door where it always is?" Roderich replied, watching as Ludwig went back to the front room.

 _What a strange question,_ he said to himself. _Is there something wrong with my coat? Surely it's just some routine Gestapo thing. They do peculiar things like that._

 _But what if he knows something? What if he wants to see my papers? What if he starts asking personal questions? What if he finds something I forgot to hide? What if –_

"When you were going to the bomb shelter, did you happen to pass by the corner of Schulstrasse and Bahnhofstrasse?" Ludwig interrupted Roderich's what-if mental breakdown, coming back into the room with the coat in his arms. Roderich couldn't see anything wrong with the coat, but he could see that something was wrong with Ludwig. His voice lost the semi-sweet tone to it, making his words cold and rough.

"Yes," Roderich said slowly. "But what has that got to do with anything?"

"Were you coming from the north or the west?" Ludwig continued.

"West."

He knew he shouldn't lie to a Gestapo man. Ludwig could've been following him and saw exactly where he went. But it was an instinct to lie about literally anything if he was given a choice of options. He needed to keep people guessing. If they could trace his steps back to wherever he'd just been, they might be able to find something, they might be able to make contacts, they might be able to bring him down.

"Why would you go that way?" Ludwig kept his head held high, acting like he was so much better than Roderich, who currently felt worthless.

"Because it's faster."

"Did you go by Herr Seitz's office?"

"Yes."

Ludwig handed the coat to Roderich. "Do you see those marks?" he asked, pointing to white streaks Roderich never knew were on his coat. They looked almost like someone dragged their fingers along the fabric with their hands covered in paint.

"What's wrong with them?" Roderich dared to ask, looking up at Ludwig pitifully.

"We found enemy propaganda painted on Herr Seitz's office the morning after the air raid. The colour of these streaks matches up perfectly to the paint on the wall. No one else was mad enough to be out at that hour with an air raid. So, do you have an alibi?"

"I…I must have just accidentally brushed up against the wall. And why would I paint enemy propaganda, knowing I'm going to face the minister of propaganda myself tomorrow?" Roderich ran his fingers over the dried paint, trying not to let his panic bleed through his calm mask.

"Exactly. I knew that it wasn't you," Ludwig said, his voice losing the coldness. Roderich was hit by a wave of short-lived relief, his heart rate returning to almost normal. "But," he added, sending Roderich back into a miniature anxiety attack. "I had to be sure of your story. Some people do the most unexpected things."

"If that was so important to you, why did you even bother to help me?" Roderich asked. "I mean, wouldn't you want to interrogate me first and then help? And then you acted like you almost forgot, and you even said that you could come back at a later time."

Ludwig cracked a smile. "It's a ruse, Herr von Wolffe. I acted like I was sincerely concerned about your health and your relation to my brother, when in reality I could've cared less. And the forgetting was just part of the game. I had no intentions of leaving when I said I could come back later – I specifically turned so you could see my gun. If I would've shown up at the door angry and demanding answers, you wouldn't have trusted me. But, by letting you build up that confidence, I was able to get what I wanted out of you quickly. Don't let what just happened fool you, though, I still rather enjoy your company and would love to talk to you more often. Sometimes work just gets in the way."

"Do all of you Gestapo agents do things like that?" Roderich said, wondering just how many people could be using him like this. Suddenly he was suspicious of everyone.

"Oh, no, as far as I know, it's just me. Everyone else uses fear and brute force. The safest path to Hell is a gradual one. With a steep drop you get nothing but resistance. But when the path is a gentle slope with no bumps or turns, before long man finds himself standing at the gates of Hell and wondering how he ever got there." Ludwig gave him another grin. "You didn't happen to see anyone when you were on Bahnhofstrasse, did you?"

Roderich searched the memory of the night, vaguely recalling someone at the corner. "There was a man," he started, trying to picture his face clearer. "Rather short, with blond hair and a white beret."

"Zwingli," Ludwig muttered under his breath. " _Danke._ It was a pleasure talking to you, Herr von Wolffe. I wish you the best for your concert. If you ever need something, my home is 484 Haupstrasse, although I'm rarely home. _Auf Wiedersehen."_ He turned on his heels, disappearing into the front room.

 _"Auf Wiedersehen,"_ Roderich said, clutching his coat tight to his chest.

The safest path to Hell was a gradual one, and Roderich knew he was on it.

* * *

Lilli smoothed out the handmade quilt, running her fingers over the meticulous stitches Basch grumbled about for weeks. He never was one for delicate work, unless, of course, he was cleaning or repairing a gun. But he promised Lilli a new quilt for Christmas, and he delivered. It was a pastel pink and blue checkerboard pattern with little daisies embroidered into the blue patches. Sometimes she wondered where he got the thread and fabric to make it, seeing as there was a war on and there weren't vast expanses of fabric lying around.

But it was the thought that mattered.

She looked over the tiny bedroom, quite satisfied with her work. Basch always told her not to clean, that he would do the work when he got home, but she didn't like to feel so useless. After all, Basch took Lilli in when he couldn't even take care of himself – she felt like it was her responsibility to be as helpful as she could be.

Today she'd taken it upon herself to fix the broken front step after she came home from school, finding some rather odd little things under the porch. There was a half empty can of white paint and a paintbrush, a bullet-riddled copy of _Mein Kampf,_ various bits of broken gun parts, cigarette butts, and a black box no bigger than a brick, tucked all the way in the back and covered partially with dirt.

She did what she knew was right – left the box alone, put the paint back in the shed, and hammered the plank into place so there wasn't a gaping hole for one of the two steps up to the porch. But now as she waited patiently for her brother in the kitchen, her mind went straight back to that box. What could be inside? Would Basch ever show the box to her? Or was it some memento from his horrid past in Geneva, something that he couldn't bear to talk about? Was it money? Was it keys to treasure? Was it anything of value?

"I've got to distract myself," Lilli said, going over to the record player Basch brought home back when the war was still young and exciting. His pathetic explanation was that someone was throwing it out because it was broken. For a while she believed him and went along with it. But she wasn't a clueless child anymore. Lilli knew he'd bought it on the black market, but she didn't complain. She never complained.

Searching through the stack of records Basch claimed he got from a friend that he didn't have, Lilli picked up her favourite one and put it on the player. Soon the soft voice of Lale Andersen was floating through the home, bringing up memories of Basch dancing with Lilli in their cramped kitchen, singing along to "Lilli Marlene." He would laugh and smile and just seem alive.

But now he was burdened by his job – the military needed guns, the military broke guns, the military demanded parts. He managed to make it home by dinnertime every night, only to be called out on a sabotage mission or a rendezvous for the Underground. Lilli just wanted a day where Basch wasn't working until three in the morning and they could laugh and dance to "Lilli Marlene" again. She wanted to see him come home and not immediately fall asleep. She wanted to see him smile.

If only there wasn't a war on.

" _T'was there that you whispered tenderly,"_ Lilli sang along softly, dancing across the kitchen floor by herself. " _That you loved me,_

 _"You'd always be,_

 _"My Lilli of the Lamplight,_

 _"My own Lilli –"_

A loud knock on the door cut her short. It couldn't have been Basch – it was too early and he wouldn't have knocked. She went to the window over the sink, leaning over to find a man in a black uniform standing in front of the door. It was a regular at their doorstep, a Gestapo agent who loved to drag Basch off in the night and bring him back bruised. But Lilli had never answered the door for him; she'd always hid far from the man.

"Hello? Is anyone home?" the man asked, looking over at the window. Lilli yelped, backing away from the glass. He knew she was there now, if he couldn't already guess before.

Her heart all but stopped as she went over to the record player and tore the arm from the record with a horrible scratching sound. Lilli knew Basch got caught. She knew he was going to a faraway camp. She knew they would never see each other again and they'd send her off to some orphanage while Basch was forced to lay railroad track all day. But she had to act like she knew nothing was wrong. That was the first thing Basch taught her – always know nothing.

"Hello," Lilli said in the shyest voice she could muster as she opened the door, looking up at the daunting man.

"Hello there." The man's voice was low and calm, reminiscent of a father's. Perhaps he was one. "You must be Lilli Zwingli, ja?"

 _How does he know my name? Surely Basch wouldn't tell him._

"Yes, sir, my name is Lilli," she replied, playing with one of her long braids. Basch taught her that the more childish she looked, the better. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No, dear, I'm looking for your brother. Is he home?" The man flashed a reassuring grin, but Lilli wasn't going to fall for anything the Gestapo man threw her way.

She shook her head. "No, sir. He's at work right now. Can I take a message?"

"What time does he usually get home?" he asked, letting his eyes wander around their house. _What, is he looking for clues?_ Lilli said to herself. _He's not going to find anything._

"Around six or so." Lilli glanced back at the clock on the wall – it was five past seven. She knew what she had to say next, even if she would rather kill herself than invite a Gestapo man in. But Basch taught her to be polite, especially to the Nazis. "He should be home any minute now. Would you like to come in and wait?"

The man looked down at her, cold eyes flickering with a hint of interest. "I don't want to trouble you."

"No, it isn't any trouble at all. Please, sir, come in."

 _Oh, no, this is it. He's going to find something, something that I didn't put away or Basch didn't burn. The two of us could spend tonight in a jail cell._

"I'm so sorry, I never gave you my name," the man said as he walked in, closing the door behind him with an ominous finality. She was stuck with him now – no escape. "I'm _Kriminalinspektor_ Beilschmidt, but you can call me Ludwig."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Herr Ludwig. Would you like some coffee?" Lilli chirped, grabbing the pot of coffee she made for Basch.

"No thank you, I don't intend to stay that long. You have a lovely house," Ludwig said, sitting down at the kitchen table. He took off his gloves, revealing dried blood on his fingertips. Lilli gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry, have I done something wrong?" Ludwig asked.

"You…you…there's blood on your fingers!" Lilli took a step back, her hand searching for something to use as a weapon against the presumed murderer.

Ludwig held up his hands, a little smile crossing his face. "Oh, dear, I didn't mean to scare you. I was helping an injured man today, and I completely forgot about this. Don't worry, I didn't kill anyone."

"What –"

Lilli was interrupted by the front door slamming open. Basch burst in, his green eyes wild.

"Lilli, are you alright?" he asked, walking right by the Gestapo man in his kitchen and going over to the girl. He gave her a hug, acting like they'd been separated for years. "I saw the car outside and thought that he'd…What does it matter? You're safe. And that's all that…" He froze, finally realizing who was sitting at the table.

" _Guten Abend,_ Herr Zwingli. Would you kindly back away from the girl and put your hands in the air? Unless, of course, you want me to drag you out of here again."

* * *

 **A/N: One day I won't assault Basch every chance I get. It's not my fault – he's too damn easy to play with. He's probably the character I have the most fun writing. Everyone else just makes me scream on the inside, especially Roderich and Lilli.**

 **I'm not really sure if I should do translation notes at this point – everyone knows their** _ **Auf Weidersehen**_ **and** _ **Guten Abend**_ **, right? Maybe it's just me being a German nerd and assuming most people know the basics of the basics. So, if I ever put something down that you don't understand, just Google translate it.** _ **Raus**_ **does mean "out," though.**

 **I don't have a lot to say this time, it's been a pretty quiet week here. So, thank you to** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** Abc **,** Chizu5645 **,** EllaAwkward **, and my cinnamon rolls** SoulEleri **and** Comix and Co **! You guys all make my day!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	5. Rubato

Basch fell back against the wall, his hip throbbing where Ludwig's boot was moments ago. Blood dripped from his nose, the back of his sleeve stained with gun oil and crimson. His palms were an angry red from being slapped with a belt so many times – thankfully they'd gone numb with pain. He knew there was going to be a bruise under his eye when he woke up tomorrow morning, his head felt like it was cracked in half, and his lungs didn't seem to recall how breathing worked, making him gasp.

But this was nothing.

"Why must I do this every week? Listen, Zwingli, you have a family to get back to." Ludwig sat back down at the desk, wiping the blood off of his knuckles with a once white, now rust red handkerchief. "Poor little Lilli is all alone in that house of yours. Who knows what trouble she could get into? It would be horrible if something happened and you weren't there to protect her. She's such a doll, your sister. It's a shame she's so gullible and let me into the house."

"Don't drag her into this."

Ludwig looked over at the broken man with a mixture of mock pity and amusement. "But I don't have any family. I could do this forever. It would be in your best interest to start answering my questions right now, before I actually get angry. So, I'm going to ask you one more time – why did I find a map tucked under a loose floorboard with buildings circled?"

Basch just growled at him.

"I hate to do this to you," Ludwig sighed, grabbing something Basch couldn't quite make out from a drawer in his desk. "But you're just so hopelessly intolerable that you leave me no choice. Before I force the answer out of you, would you like to explain this all to me one more time?"

"Why should I have to answer to you?" Basch spat. "I know I'm innocent, you know I'm innocent, and you're just making a game out of this because I won't talk! It's illegal to beat any man after he's given his testimony!"

"If you were really oh-so _innocent"_ – Ludwig said the word "innocent" like it physically pained him – "then you would've answered my questions immediately. Liars try to stall for as long as they can." He glanced at the cracked watch on his wrist. "And you've been stalling for five hours now. I know you well enough to recognize when you're lying to me."

"I gave you my alibi and that's all you should need. I was at my house that night, with Lilli. I was nowhere near the road. You can ask my neighbours – they all saw me come home because they were having some damn obnoxious party and I told them to shut up."

"That's nice." Ludwig held up a piece of paper with a rough map of Vienna sketched on it. Several squares representing houses or shops were circled in bright red ink, with little symbols beside them. "So, where does the map fall into this?"

"Absolutely nowhere. That's a map of my customers," Basch replied, feeling a lump form in the back of his throat.

 _I should've been more careful. But I was reckless. I thought I could get away with it. And now look. I can't keep this up forever, at some point he's going to punch the answer out of me or ship me off to a labour camp._

"I don't like liars, Zwingli. Now, give me the truth and I'll stop beating you."

"Go ahead and snap my neck already! I refuse to drop to my knees and beg at the feet of a disgusting person like you." Basch swallowed hard as he saw Ludwig get up and walk calmly over to him. He held up his fists, ready to beat the Gestapo man to death, but Ludwig didn't raise his hand. He stood in front of him for a moment, blue eyes gleaming with a devilish delight.

Without warning, he grabbed Basch by the collar of his shirt and shoved him back up against the wall. Basch instinctively protected his throat before realizing Ludwig had taken a fistful of the man's blond hair.

Basch heard a sickening _crack_ and black streaks tore across his vision.

He slumped to the floor in a blood-spattered and bruised heap, Ludwig's laughter making his head hurt worse than it already did. Basch let his eyes close, welcoming the gentle darkness. For the next few splendid minutes, pain was a non-existent thing and he couldn't hear Ludwig's taunting voice. But as all good things do, his little fraction of comfort came to a quick end when he felt something stab into his arm. All the aches came back, accompanied by an insufferable ringing in his ears. When he finally cleared the spots from his eyes, Ludwig was looking down at him expectantly.

"What did you do to me?" Basch asked, earning himself a sharp nudge in the side.

"When is Lilli's birthday, Zwingli?"

 _What kind of sick game is he trying to play with me?_ "August third," he replied with a smug grin, throwing a random date out there just to make the _kriminalinspektor_ furious.

"…What?" Ludwig lost his intimidation for a moment, giving Basch another nudge. "What's your middle name?" he asked, sounding almost confused.

"You Gestapo men don't seem to know a whole lot about people. I have two middle names; Martin Johannes." He smiled, watching as Ludwig looked at something in his hand and then back at Basch, his eyebrows furrowed together. He seemed to be puzzled as to why Basch was lying – it wasn't anything new, so what was so confusing about it?

"Can people be immune?" Ludwig asked himself in a quiet voice, looking down at Basch.

"Can you go back to whatever circle of Hell you came from? And immune from what?"

Ludwig looked back down at him, his anger quickly returning. "Get up," he snarled. "Something went wrong. I'm going to have to finish the interrogation."

"What do you mean, 'finish?'" Basch asked as he pushed himself up. "There aren't any more answers to get out of me."

"Just get up."

Basch tried to get to his feet, but his legs refused to hold his weight. He tried once more, this time almost making it to a standing position before hitting the ground, _hard_. Ludwig was absolutely no help, grinning like a madman the whole time Basch struggled.

"Can you not stand up?" Ludwig asked, watching with too much enjoyment in his eyes as Basch fell yet again. "You're already on your knees," he started, putting his foot down on Basch's back to pin him to the floor – as if the man was actually going to muster the strength to stand up. "Now, start begging."

"Make me."

Ludwig dug the heel of his boot deeper into Basch's back. "I want to hear you beg for your life, Zwingli. I want to hear you cry out for Lilli. I want to hear you _scream."_

"Oh, sounds erotic. I guess since you Gestapo men can't go home to your wives, you got to find pleasure elsewhere, huh?" Basch tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a sick wheezing sound. Ludwig gave him a swift kick in the side as a reply.

"I'm a very lonely man, Zwingli. I have no _fraulein_ to go home to, as you say _._ The only way I can get my satisfaction is by hearing others scream for their insignificant, worthless, useless lives." He pulled his gun from the holster on his hip, cocking it and pointing it at Basch's head. "Now, tell me why you did it. You have ten seconds."

"Firstly, I've already said I was at home. Second, that gun of yours doesn't scare me – it isn't even loaded. If it was, when you cocked it there should've been a louder click. But that's just an empty pistol, which doesn't tend to do any harm. Don't pull a gun on a gun expert."

Ludwig flipped the pistol over so he was holding the barrel, bringing the stock down into the soft spot between Basch's shoulder blades. Basch made the mistake of letting a small cry escape his mouth, Ludwig taking the whimper as a sign to keep hitting that same spot.

"Why do you think I'm going to believe that someone would be at their own damned home during an air raid?" Ludwig kicked Basch away from him, putting his Luger back in its holster.

"Why do you…why do you think…?" Basch slurred, watching in total bewilderment as his vision started to blur again. He struggled to push himself up, knowing he was going to black out soon. Basch couldn't let the dark get to him – who knows what Ludwig could do if he was out cold? "'S okay to beat people?"

Ludwig knelt down, a tiny smile on his face. "Ah, there we go. I was beginning to worry some people were unresponsive. You took much longer than anyone else I've seen, Zwingli, and I must say, I'm rather impressed at your strength. But it's all over now. You can say goodbye to your job, to your house, to Lilli."

"Th' hell are you talkin' 'bout?"

"Do you see this?" Ludwig held up an empty syringe, its glass gleaming in the pale lamplight. "A while ago it was full of something, which is now inside of you, called sodium pentothal. It makes miserable people like you tell the truth. Don't be surprised if you wake up on a train to Mauthausen, you traitor."

"What?" Basch rubbed at his tired eyes, hoping that he was hearing things. A drug that made people tell the truth? Surely Ludwig was just trying to scare him.

"Oh, right, I forgot – the best part about all of this is that you won't be able to remember any of it. Your last memory will be when I slammed your head into the wall. You won't remember when I told you how lonely I am, or when I asked you about your middle names. And I'll have another arrest to go on my file, bringing me a step closer to promotion." Ludwig patted Basch's head like he would to a dog. " _Danke."_

"You're…a dirty cheater," Basch groaned. "A no good Gestapo man."

"Oh, I know it. I'm a terrible human. All of us Gestapo men are. _Gute Nacht,_ Zwingli."

* * *

The horizon was tainted a faint pink when the lonesome musician set out for the train station with nothing more than a small briefcase, a composition book, and a Stradivarius named Marlene. His well-polished dress shoes made a rhythmic _click-click-click_ on the sidewalk as he walked, providing a metronome for his thoughts. All morning he'd been running _A Lonely Winter's Lullaby_ over and over to the point of insanity – but he didn't want to even think of the consequences of a mistake. His choices were either drive himself mad with his own music or get shot for a little slip-up.

And to be honest, Roderich found neither of the two appealing.

 _I shouldn't worry so much,_ Roderich told himself. _After all, the more I fret about something, the more frustrated I get, and frustration only leads to drinking. Drinking leads to lost time, lost time makes for more worry, and the whole damned cycle starts all over again. If only I wasn't a musician. Then I wouldn't have to worry about little mistakes that could ultimately end in my death._

 _All I'd have to worry about is when the draft notice shows up in my mailbox. So, it's either I stay an alcoholic composer at my wit's end or die a nameless soldier in some foreign country. Suddenly I don't have it so bad._

Danke, _Hitler, for forcing me to be an alcoholic. Without you I'd be a happy, probably still married, sensible, not-in-danger-of-being-killed man. But you had to go and start up some revolting empire because you don't like a certain group of people. Well, now, did you ever think that the Jews and the Poles and the Russians and the homosexuals and the gypsies don't like you? Perhaps they want to go start their own little empire and invade everyone. And then I could go join their empire and not spend my days trying to drink my sorrows away!_

Roderich sighed softly, shifting the weight of the Stradivarius case. _Oh, what am I even saying anymore? I'm getting all worked up about something that's never going to happen. Everyone will stay scared as long as the Führer has them under control. Face it, Roderich, until the cursed war ends, you're going to stay a drunk._

 _Well, I suppose out of all the things to be in the world right now, an alcoholic can't be the worst. I could be off hunting down literally anyone with the Gestapo. I could be murdering innocents in Leningrad. I could be a propaganda man, lying to the whole of the German Empire that we're not fighting a war on the wrong side._

 _Shit, I technically am a propaganda man._

Roderich stopped and leaned back against a lamppost, letting that last thought sink in. He'd never thought of himself as a propaganda man, but rather as the one being _used_ for propaganda. However, he was producing the music for the liars of the radio – and that made him part of the whole disgusting scheme.

 _Now I've gone off and ruined my day. Bravo, Roderich, bravo._

He took to running over his music again, trying to force thoughts of him being part of the deceiving, slanderous group of people the loyal citizens of the Reich loved to hear. Roderich played the song over and over in his mind, refusing to let a single error slip through the system. The world around him faded into nothing more than a backdrop for the music, a stage of sorts for his mental performance.

That is, until he ran straight into a young girl.

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry," he apologized, taking a step back from the little girl. She looked up at him with wide sea green eyes, her knuckles white as she held tight to a little basket with a blue bandana hiding the contents.

"No, sir, it's my fault." She quickly dismissed his apology with a wave of her free hand. "I should've been paying attention. I'm sorry."

"Are you alright?" Roderich asked.

"Yes, sir," she replied with an enthusiastic nod.

"What are you doing out so early?"

She quickly looked to the sidewalk again. "I was just running some errands. May I ask what you're doing, sir?"

"Going to Berlin, unfortunately," Roderich muttered.

"You're really going to Berlin?" Her eyes sparkled with childish wonder. "I've always wanted to go to Berlin, and my brother says that once he gets enough money he'll take me. But he already works long hours, and we can hardly…Oh, gosh, I'm sorry," she said, her face tinged with pink blush. "I talk too much."

"Nonsense. You're just a child, it's fine to get excited. I hope you do get to Berlin someday. But after the war's over, of course."

"Of course. You have a wonderful trip, sir," she said, turning on her heels and running off towards a cluster of ramshackle houses.

" _Auf_ …" Roderich trailed off, his attention finally caught on something worthwhile. At the hem of the girl's dress were white streaks, the same colour of the ones on Roderich's coat. And he could just barely see a paintbrush sticking out from underneath the bandana.

That girl was the one who'd nearly gotten him sent to Gestapo Headquarters. She could've torn Roderich's whole life to pieces in an instant.

The first thought to come to mind was that he should chase her. He quickly decided against that after a review of his physical abilities, and instead decided that he would go search for her "art." Roderich checked to make sure the girl was out of sight before he went into the alley she came from, searching the brick walls.

It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for – on one wall, the words "the only good Nazi is a dead one" were written in white paint that was still wet. Roderich stood there for too long looking at the girl's work. She obviously put care into every letter, even painting delicate little edelweiss at the bottom where one would expect an artist's signature to be. Her talent truly was art.

But on the other hand, it was horribly wrong. Anti-Nazi propaganda like hers was what sent people to concentration camps. As a matter of fact, that girl could be sent away for her work. Surely she had parents; what would they think of her sabotage? She mentioned a brother Roderich presumed was older, wouldn't he be worried about his sister? What about her friends at school, if she even went? What would go through their minds when they came to class every day and her seat was empty?

For what seemed like a century he looked at those eight words, questioning his morals. Was he going to be the one to turn her in? The Gestapo heavily encouraged turning on his own people – and he might be able to gain a bit more leverage with them. But at the same time, the girl couldn't have been older than twelve. It was probably nothing more than a game to her, to see how far she could push people until they snapped. She might not even know how serious the punishment could be.

Roderich smiled at the thought of the little girl, turning his back on her artwork for someone else to find. He could only imagine how happy she was with herself, getting away with a successful sabotage. Once again he started off on his journey for the train station, humming his cursed lullaby. It wasn't his business to be handing children over to the Gestapo. If they wanted the criminal so badly, they could find her.

She'd won the game this time.

* * *

"Good morning, Herr Commandant!" Ivan shouted way too loud for how early in the morning it was, giving Gilbert a lazy salute. "You wanted to see me, yes?"

"Sit down," Gilbert ordered. Ivan looked at him almost nervously, taking the seat in front of Gilbert's desk and propping his dirty boots up on the edge. Gilbert groaned softly, shoving his feet from his already chaotic workspace.

"You're acting too nice to me, sir. Usually you would've already called me a worthless Slav or mortar fodder." Ivan smiled, putting his arms behind his head. "So, what do you want? I have watches, radios, one of your guards brought me in some nylons, more vodka than any Russian needs, Sadik said he could make me a few knives, and I even have three Iron Crosses if you want to impress Frau Beilschmidt." Ivan listed off his hoard of items like they were something to be proud of.

"You're not here to talk about illegal activities." Gilbert sighed, grabbing Raivis' report. "And don't think I haven't taken note of everything you just said."

"Oh, sorry, sir. But if any of that interests you –"

Gilbert slammed his fist down on the desk. "I am _not_ wasting my time with an infuriating man like you to talk about the black market I'm going to deny you have running in this camp. You better hope to whatever pagan god you have in Russia that I don't find any of those things you just mentioned in your barrack when we have the inspection tomorrow. Now," he said, opening the report to a page he'd added himself – one that a guard found tucked under Raivis' mattress. Along with it they'd found the Russian colonel's capture report, something Gilbert thought they'd lost forever. Obviously, Ivan had something to hide. "How did you learn to speak German so fluently?"

Ivan gave him another worried glance. "I just listened to other people."

"But when would you have been around Germans if you spent most of your life in Moscow? There aren't very many insane enough to go live with you Communist bastards."

"Ah, there's the angry commandant I love," Ivan said, the anxiety from moments ago disappearing. "I've been with Germans since '39. Two years in a country where you don't understand a thing sort of forces you to learn the language."

Gilbert flashed a small smirk – he loved it when Ivan was lying, as he knew better than anyone how to turn the own man's words against him. "Braginsky, you were captured on December 30th, 1939. Your birthday, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Some hell of a birthday that was," Ivan laughed weakly, the worry springing right back up again. "I turned twenty-four, went out to find some dumb girl who was willing to spend the day with a handsome soldier, and all of a sudden I found myself on a train to Wolfsburg."

"And I was not commandant here yet, correct?"

"Yes, the man before you wasn't half as fun as you are, sir. He actually let me get away with things. There weren't any screaming matches, I never knew the joys of solitary confinement, and he didn't even threaten to murder me once like you do. But then you came in with your broken leg and it's been wonderful," Ivan explained.

"Never mind my broken leg. This previous commandant – although lenient – kept perfect records of every one of his prisoners." Gilbert glanced down at the paper before him. "So, Colonel Ivan Leonidovich Braginsky, tell me why it is written here that you came into the camp speaking perfect German and claiming you had connections in Salzburg?"

Ivan, for once in the almost two years Gilbert had the displeasure of knowing him, was completely silent.

"Who are these connections, Braginsky?"

The Russian looked up, his violet eyes empty. "They are no one, sir. They are dead to me."

"They are not 'no one.' According to the paper, you worked in Salzburg as a young boy for a man named von Wolffe." Gilbert stood up, walking over to Ivan. The man kept his head hung, looking at his calloused hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world. "Tell me," Gilbert continued, grabbing Ivan's chin and forcing the man to look him in the eye. "Tell me what you were doing in Salzburg with a von Wolffe."

"…von Wolffe?" Ivan was blushing again. "Who is…?" He suddenly seemed to remember something, his eyes widening for just a moment. "I do not recall much of it, sir. I was young. Maybe five or six."

"That's not an answer, Braginsky."

"Sir, I don't want to answer."

"If you answer I will allow you and your men an extra hour of electricity," Gilbert offered. "And I will overlook any black market activities for the next month."

"That's not worth it," Ivan snapped.

Gilbert took a step back, willing himself not to explode. Sitting right in front of him was the next step in the von Wolffe case, and he happened to be the most frustrating man in the world. "Braginsky, please just tell me about von Wolffe. That's all I'm asking, no strings or traps."

Ivan lowered his eyes again, taking a deep breath. "I was an orphan. I had two sisters. I cannot even remember their names; it's been so long. But we were sent to these old women with dozens of little girls after my parents died. The women said they could take my sisters, but they could not take a boy. They gave me a train ticket and told me to get off in a city that I didn't know, that there would be someone there to take care of me. I was scared to leave the train. I should've got off in Poland, but I didn't. I should've got off in Czechoslovakia, but I didn't. And when the train reached Vienna, there were no more Russians with me."

He paused, screwing his eyes shut. "This horrible man got on with his son. The son was nice, much younger than me, though. I would say he was three. He tried to talk to me, but I couldn't understand him. His father told him to stop, to leave me alone like the filth I was. And for a while, the boy did. When his father fell asleep, though, he came over to me with a notebook and a pencil. He drew a little person, writing 'Roderich' above it, only I couldn't read anything but Cyrillic. We tried for a long time to understand each other's language. And by the time we figured out how to talk to each other, the train was in Salzburg.

"The boy drew a house on the page, and then what I assumed was meant to be me. He tried to copy Cyrillic above my name, making an arrow to the house. He asked his father something, and he yelled. Herr von Wolffe did a lot of shouting. But somehow I was allowed to go with the two. And then I lived there for two years. But I got so sick of Herr Edel…Herr von Wolffe, I mean, one night I jumped a train to Russia. And now I'm here."

Gilbert could hardly contain his excitement. He'd finally found the key to Roderich, and to believe it was through the most obnoxious man he knew. "What was that name you started to say? Edel?"

"It was someone else's name, sir, a man who lived nearby. He liked to shout as well."

"Can you tell me the rest of that name?" Gilbert asked.

Ivan shrugged. "We always called him Edelweiss, because it made him mad, but I doubt that's the real name."

"Good, good. When you were with the family, did they do anything special on Saturday?"

"I don't know. Roderich and I never stayed at the house on Saturdays – we were allowed to go explore the forest. I think his parents wanted time to themselves without us."

"Did they ever celebrate any odd holidays?"

"I really don't know, sir. I always kept to myself and did what I was told. If I wasn't working I was hiding in my room." Ivan sighed, looking up at Gilbert. "What did I do this time, Herr Commandant? I can't remember something that I've done to deserve this."

"What do you mean, 'deserve this?'" Gilbert asked, going back to his desk and sitting down. So far he'd gotten less than he would've liked out of Ivan, but at least he'd gotten somewhere.

Ivan tugged at his scarf, avoiding eye contact. "Who told you about Salzburg?"

"No one told me – it was on record. Record that one of your men stole, might I add. Would you please talk to them about thievery again?"

"They took it for a reason. Those were the worst years of my life, Herr Commandant." Ivan pulled his scarf down just enough to show off several burn marks. "That man, Herr von Wolffe, he took pleasure in hurting me. He had a glasswork shop, and one day I was helping him and he claimed he accidentally put a hot pipe to my neck, for only a second. It was not a second." Ivan put his hand to one of the scars, flinching at the memory. "It felt like an hour. He must've liked how I screamed, because he started to hit me more and more. He was rather fond of burning me."

"You probably were being a brat and deserved it," Gilbert muttered, scribbling down notes in the margin of the page. He wrote "Edel," and "something with Saturday," before closing the little report and putting it back in his safe.

"Sir, I deserve a lot of things, but no young child deserves to be burned for doing nothing but trying to help."

Gilbert looked up at him. "Did you just admit to deserving punishment? Braginsky, what's gotten into you?"

"I'm glad you know my life story now, sir. So I'm not in trouble, yes?" Ivan asked, standing up. "Please don't tell anyone about me. The only other one who knows is Toris, and he wouldn't dare to talk."

"I swear I won't tell anyone."

Ivan smiled a real, honest smile, something he'd never shown Gilbert. He was usually only grinning to be cocky or mocking – and strangely enough, Gilbert rather liked the true smile. The man's whole face seemed to light up, his indigo eyes gleaming. "Thank you, Herr Commandant."

"Oh, Braginsky?" Gilbert added.

"Yes?"

"You have a cute middle name. Leonidovich. I like that."

Ivan's face went red. "That's not my middle name. That's a patronym. It's my father's name."

"It's still cute," Gilbert said. "Can I call you Leonidovich?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

"Leonidovich, Leonidovich, Leonidovich!" Gilbert chanted, going up to Ivan and giving him a little shove.

"Thank you for making me angry again, Herr Commandant." Ivan pushed pass Gilbert and opened the door. "Talking about serious matters with you just doesn't feel right." He glanced over his shoulder, giving him his trademark smirk. " _Auf Weidersehen,_ Hans!" And with that, he took off running.

"How do you know my middle name?!" Gilbert shouted after him, but the man was already laughing with someone else like he hadn't just told the enemy his tragic past.

* * *

"So, Zwingli, how do you feel about Lake Geneva?" was the first thing the beaten man heard when he awoke.

"I hate it with a fiery passion?" Basch moaned, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Everything hurt, which wasn't much of a surprise, considering the previous night's beating. He blinked a few times to clear the sleepiness from his eyes, looking around the small office. Ludwig was sitting at his desk half asleep, with tousled hair and dark lines under his dull blue eyes. "What sort of question was that?"

"You kept mumbling about it in your sleep," Ludwig replied. "Kept asking for someone to save you."

"What does it matter to you? We must be getting to be good friends if you're so concerned."

Ludwig smiled to himself. "I'm not. I just wanted to know if there was some sort of dark backstory. But what does it matter now? You're going home."

"…I'm what?" Basch asked, too startled to say anything snarky.

"You heard me, Zwingli, you're going home. I checked with my superior this morning, and I technically don't have enough evidence to arrest you. Unfortunately, your alibi is perfect. And even though I'd love to take you out back and just put a bullet in your head for all of the trouble you've caused me, the Gestapo still has to follow _some_ rules." Ludwig got up, coming over to Basch. "Can you get up?" He held out his gloved hand – was he actually offering to help?

Basch gently took his hand, praying it wasn't a sick joke that was going to result in even more pain. But thankfully, Ludwig didn't slam him to the ground again. As Basch shakily got to his feet, he noticed a small bruise on his forearm. Normally he wouldn't be so concerned about a bruise, but he didn't recall getting that one. And there was a red dot in the middle of the bruise, like he'd once been bleeding.

"Did…did you inject me with something?" Basch dared to ask, examining his arm. Sure enough, it looked just like the mark he got when they almost drafted him for the military but didn't get much farther than a vaccine.

"I have no idea where that came from."

"You're lying to me."

Ludwig shrugged, leading Basch out of the office. "I may or may not be. Good luck figuring out."

Basch couldn't quite remember when he came into the cesspool that the Gestapo men called their office, but it definitely wasn't what it looked like that morning. In each of the cells along the wall was a man who was either borderline insane, furious, or starving. They all looked at Basch with hungry, envious eyes, despite the fact that the man was limping and relying mostly on Ludwig to keep himself upright. How long had those men been in their cells? Long enough to go stir-crazy, it seemed.

One the other side of the wall were offices identical to Ludwig's. As Basch walked by one with the door slightly ajar, he caught an angry shout for money, and then shortly after there was a gunshot. Ludwig didn't even flinch; was someone being murdered a daily thing? Certainly they wouldn't kill someone in their own offices.

Would they?

"Ah, you're not going to be able to walk home this time, are you?" Ludwig asked when they got outside, and without even waiting for a response he added, "I'll drive you home. Just try not to bleed all over my car."

"I'll try, but with the shape you left me in, it'll be nearly impossible," Basch said as he slowly got into the car, still extremely wary of Ludwig's so-called "kindness." He still thought the man was going to kill him and dump his body on the side of the road somewhere, but Ludwig just started the engine and made another snide remark about Basch's injuries before driving off.

Basch never thought his first ride in a car would be when he was in an immense amount of agony, and he definitely didn't expect a Gestapo _kriminalinspektor_ to be driving him home. He'd always thought he would finally save up enough money and be able to buy his own car. At least in a personal car he wouldn't be terrified to get any blood on the seats.

"Don't think you got away easy, Zwingli," Ludwig said, startling Basch out of his car reverie. "I'm not going to drop your case entirely. Personally, I know you're guilty. But like I said, my superior told me I would be in a great deal of trouble if I sent you off to a labour camp, you being a gunsmith and all. So, let me offer you a piece of advice – don't try _anything._ I rather enjoyed our interrogation last night, and I look forward to the next one."

"Ja, why don't we do this again? I'll probably be back in a week or so," Basch suggested, looking back down at the bruise on his arm. There was a tugging in the back of his mind, like he knew what happened but couldn't place it. He remembered a sharp stab in his arm, but after that it was dark. Did Ludwig use some sort of sleep-inducing drug? Better yet, what did he do while Basch was asleep? That question was much more terrifying than the first, as Basch's imagination went to dark places trying to come up with the answer.

"Here we are." Ludwig stopped the car in front of Basch's house, motioning for him to get out. "Take care of yourself, Zwingli. I hope to finally convict you some day and be on your firing squad."

"And I hope to see your obituary in the paper." Basch got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. As Ludwig drove off the front door creaked open, revealing a tired Lilli still in her nightgown.

"Basch?" Lilli asked like it wasn't her brother standing at edge of their small yard. "What did they do to you?"

Basch took a step towards her, not fully realizing how weak his legs were. The next thing he knew he was on his knees with his face in the gravel. Darkness crept back into the corners of his vision, the ringing returning in his ears. When his eyes cleared again, there were bare feet in front of him.

"I'm fine, really," Basch reassured Lilli as she helped him up. It took him a moment to get steady again, his legs threatening to give out. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Oh, no, look at your eye." Lilli reached up, putting her hand on Basch's jaw. Tears were welling up in her green eyes, her eyebrows curved up in concern.

"What's wrong with it?"

Lilli smiled, putting her brother's arm over her shoulder. "You look just fine, big brother. I'm just happy you're okay. I was so scared last night; I thought you were going to die this time."

"Please, would Ludwig actually kill me?" Basch asked as Lilli helped him inside. She led Basch into their bedroom, the man collapsing on the bed almost instantly. It felt wonderful to lay down on something soft again instead of the cold floor.

"I have to tell you a secret," Lilli said quietly when she came back into the room with a wet washrag and bandages. "But you can't get mad at me."

"You didn't kill someone, did you?" Basch laughed. He expected Lilli to at least smile, but she kept a somber face as she washed the blood from Basch's face.

"It's worse. I went out and painted for you."

"…You did what?" It took Basch a moment to process her words, like she was speaking Portuguese instead of German. "You can't be serious."

"I am. It said 'the only good Nazi is a dead one' and I put edelweiss all over. It's rather pretty," she said, her voice full of childish pride. "It looks just like your work, you can't even tell the difference, except I make my 'a' different than you do."

"So what if it's pretty or looks like mine?" Basch put a hand on Lilli's shoulder, making the girl pause and look up at him. "You can't put yourself in danger like that. Please, Lilli, you're all I have left in the world."

"I know. But you haven't even heard the best part. I ran into some man on my way back. Or rather, he ran into me. And he didn't suspect a thing!"

"What am I going to do with you?" Basch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated himself already for getting snared in the Underground, and now he'd dragged Lilli down with him. If he got caught, the Gestapo could tie Basch back to Lilli, and both of them would be in serious trouble.

"Take me on your next rendezvous? I'd be a wonderful agent," Lilli suggested, looking up at Basch too hopefully.

* * *

Christian Kleiner was a very busy man. This was made evident by his beloved agenda, full of important events and meetings. The poor leather book was nothing more than pages upon pages of names and dates, riddled with bookmarks to keep track of the urgent ones. Every day something new was circled or underlined, usually listed under "birthday" or "Party meeting." By the looks of it, Christian must have never slept.

And he usually didn't. That agenda kept him awake at night worrying himself sick. He'd flip through it before he went to bed, checking flyers and mail to make sure the dates matched up. One little slip up could be the end of his citizenship, of his business, of his life. The book with "C.K." stamped into the cover meant everything to him.

And the dates meant nothing.

The book was an alibi, only to be used if the Gestapo caught up to him.

Christian Kleiner wasn't Christian Kleiner.

Francis Bonnefoy was Christian Kleiner to the world. Born and raised in Innsbruck – he actually grew up in the slums of Paris, where he learned how to lie, cheat, and steal – Christian Kleiner was your standard middle-class-but-almost-high-class Viennese man. He didn't have a hint of a French accent, save for when he got angry enough or careless. But for the most part, Francis had his alias perfected.

His job was technically listed as an accountant, and he _was_ rather good with numbers, but his real occupation was a conman. He preferred to call himself a "master of the art of confidence," as _conman_ had such an ugly ring to it. Francis' occupation was basically gaining the Nazis' trust, slipping into their records, changing a few things, and then pretending like nothing happened.

He was the man everyone in and around Vienna wanted to know, every criminal, every immigrant, every Jew. If the Nazi Party didn't take a liking to anything about them, they went straight to Francis. He'd seen them all, the black market enthusiasts who had a Gestapo agent breathing down their neck, the homosexual begging for Francis to hook them up with a fake girlfriend, the Polish woman with seven kids who'd just gotten a call-up to work at a labour camp, and his absolute least favourite, the half-Jew who knew they were going to be in Mauthausen in a matter of days.

And he could handle them all. The process wasn't that hard; the person who needed a few offenses erased from records or maybe a last name changed came to Francis, paid him with whatever they could, and Francis went to work, grabbed a few folders, seamlessly copied them and changed what needed to be changed, and slipped them back into the system. If the customer needed papers, he could provide them. Girlfriends were easy – he had a list of women willing to help, all he had to do was pull out the little black book and pick a name. He could even produce train tickets to Switzerland. His favourite was coming up with new names and helping to destroy accents.

But, as Francis learned the hard way, there was always an exception. Just when he thought the world was full of universals, in walked the most infuriating and desperate case he'd ever seen.

Roderich von Wolffe, formerly known as Roderich Edelstein, was slowly killing Francis.

He could come up with a last name in an instant. He could make new papers in no more than an hour. He could smuggle a family across the Swiss border in a day. But to erase everything, absolutely _everything_ about a man's past simply because his father was Jewish? Francis wasn't doing little "touch-ups" on Roderich's life anymore. He was writing a biography about a man who never existed. And worst of all, he had to move faster than Hitler's men.

"I'm so sorry, dear, but I really can't get to you until Monday," Francis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm so crammed for time now it's almost impossible to find just a minute to see someone." He glanced down at the agenda in his hands, his heart sinking as he read "von Wolffe" listed for tomorrow – he'd just learned of a new report on the man, written by some nobody in Wolfsburg. Thank God Francis had connections, or else something like a nobody's report could slip through the system.

"Please, I am not sure how much longer my husband has," the woman on the other end of the line begged, her voice choked out by a sob. Getting a call-up to report to a labour camp within two days or be forcefully taken was never easy.

"I know, I know. But it's just a matter of time management. I promise I can see you Sunday. Tell Herr Strauss I said hello, would you?"

"Of course. And if you can come any sooner…" the woman trailed off.

"I'll try. It's just two days; I know you can make it. And if the situation becomes urgent, you can stop by my house and I'll figure something out. _Auf Wiedersehen,"_ Francis said, trying not to seem like he wanted to kill someone.

" _Auf Wiedersehen."_

Francis hung his abused phone back up, tucking the agenda into his coat pocket. Every single day someone was calling him, begging for help. And he never refused a case, unless, of course, it was the occasional Gestapo agent. He rather enjoyed those calls, as he loved making up ridiculous stories to throw them so far off track they never got back on him.

Just as he was about to leave to meet up with another client, his phone rang yet again. Slamming his hat down on the table, Francis marched over to the phone and picked it up.

"Hello?" he said so quickly he forgot to cover his French accent and dropped the "h".

"Good morning, Christian," the rough voice of Basch said. "Do you remember our little agreement last week? Or are you so damn busy that you don't have the time for your cousin who got you to where you are now?"

"Basch? Oh, Lord, you sound awful. What happened?" Francis asked.

"I got beat up by the Gestapo, injected with something that I still don't know about, and told a stranger about the time I nearly drowned in Lake Geneva. So, ja, I'm fine," Basch snapped. "Now, back to the agreement. I risked my damn life for you and your business, it's time you do the same for me."

"Please, I haven't got the –"

"Time?" Basch interrupted. "Listen, you don't make a promise to me and then shrug it off. I got a problem and you're going to fix it. You, me, the bar, eleven-fifteen tomorrow. And a friendly reminder that I carry a gun at all times, so don't sneak up behind me. Oh, and I'm bringing Lilli on her first date. So, don't mess this up for us. I would hate for everything to go wrong for her."

Francis sighed, feeling rather offended that Basch showed up out of nowhere and demanded a rendezvous when he was so crunched for time. But what could he do? "Why would you think I would mess something up? I'm perfect, unlike you."

"Perfect until the moment you're told to do actual work," Basch added.

"You don't have to be so rude," Francis huffed.

"Just like how you don't have to be a dirty liar? It's my job to be rude. I'll see you Sunday. You better not be late."

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, gosh, sorry for how long this chapter is. It got kind of out of hand. So, I'll keep this short and sweet.**

 **Thank you to** SaoirseParisa **,** exca314 **,** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** Chizu5645 **,** EllaAwkward **,** Abc **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **(wow, it's going be hard to get used to that…) and** Comix and Co **! You guys are all fabulous!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	6. Accelerato

_I'm nothing more than a tool to them. And they've finally broken me. Now they're just going to throw me away._

Roderich tried to force those thoughts from his mind as he waited in the painful silence, his own mind pushing him closer and closer to insanity. Every positive thought was followed immediately by a grotesque imagining of how they were going to kill him. It was impossible to stay optimistic when the only things that came to mind were cyanide pills and nooses.

He knew he was going to die. Death was inevitable – he'd completely messed up this time. There were no second chances. In a few short minutes, Roderich von Wolffe would no longer be breathing. They were probably deliberating the method in which to kill the musician in the next room, fighting over what technique would be more agonizing. Would they go with the generic gunshot to the head or would they invent some elaborate scheme that ended up with Roderich begging for mercy? The anticipation was killing Roderich faster than whatever the officials had up their sleeves for him.

Worst of all, he was entirely in the dark as to what was going on. The propaganda men hadn't told him anything after the performance. One of them said something to Doctor Goebbels, and suddenly they all slipped away into a back room and Roderich was told to wait for his presumed demise.

 _I shouldn't have gone with a lullaby, of all things,_ Roderich said to himself, holding his head. _This is the Third Reich, Roderich, not some gentle empire. They want music that makes them seem powerful and heroic. A lullaby is just too tender, too kindhearted for a regime of mass destruction and death. If only I could change the music to something more valiant. Then I wouldn't be sitting here waiting for them to come drag me into a back room._

 _It's such a shame I have to go this way._

 _I wonder what's faster, cyanide or a bullet. Does it hurt to be shot in the head? Whatever they choose, I'm sure it'll be excruciatingly slow and unbearable. I'd rather get thrown into Dachau or Mauthausen._

 _Oh, God, what if they do send me to a camp? I can't live like that! I don't want to waste away in a prison! Even just thinking about that makes me want to do myself in._

 _Why don't I kill myself before they can get to me? It'll be like a final laugh at the Nazi empire. They want me so bad and they'll never get me. So, what is there in this room that could end my life? Strange, I never thought I'd say that sentence to myself._

Roderich was not well known for his ideas – and his newest one certainly was a bit too drastic. He looked around the room, rather disappointed when he didn't find any guns lying around. With a quick glance out the window, Roderich figured that jumping wouldn't do much more than snap a few bones. For a moment he glanced at Marlene's case before realizing he didn't have the heart to hurt his innocent Stradivarius. Even snapping a string and trying to choke himself with that would hurt him more than any human ever could.

 _Perhaps if I broke the window and took a piece of glass to slit my wrists,_ Roderich thought, looking at the window in a morbid wonder. _No, they'd hear the shatter before I'd even have a chance to hurt myself. They'd probably even save me just so they can have the pleasure of killing me themselves._

 _Oh, I've got it! My belt! Damn it, Roderich, you are an absolute genius!_ Roderich grabbed his belt, trying to unbuckle it as fast as he could. He'd almost gotten it when the door was thrown open, a man he'd never seen standing in the doorway. The man's smile faded when he saw Roderich sitting in a corner of the room with his belt undone.

"They…they would like to see you now," the man stuttered, his voice giving away everything.

Roderich was too embarrassed to say anything – he just nodded. Quickly he fixed his belt, grabbing Marlene's case and following the man into the back room. He went in with his head held high, refusing the higher-ups the pleasure of seeing him panic. If he was going to die, it was going to be dignified.

As dignified as one could be when they'd just attempted to strangle themselves with their own belt.

"Please, Herr von Wolffe, have a seat," the devilish voice ordered, the man it belonged to giving Roderich a cold grin. For a second Roderich considered being rebellious and starting a fight, but one look at the person before him sent him straight into submission. Feeling like he was in school again, he sank into the chair in front of the desk.

"I'm sure you know by now that we've been using your music for propaganda," the man said, grabbing a folder and removing a page. "It's come to my attention that the process needs to be legal. So, you can sign this and get more money for every performance or we can continue to steal from you. All you have to do is continue to write music for us, exactly as we say to." He put down a contract in front of Roderich, motioning for him to sign.

 _They're not going to shoot me? Oh, my God, I'm not going to die! Dear God, I'm alright. So, what did he just say about the contract? They're going to tell me exactly what to write? I can't let them control everything about me! What's next, they'll take away any right I have to speak?_

 _But it's better than dying._

"And what would happen if I refused to continue working for you?" Roderich asked in a quiet voice, glancing over the contract. He wasn't sure how to feel about it; on one hand he wasn't going to be buried by tomorrow morning, and on the other he was going to be forced to write music exactly as he was told. There were plenty of things on the contract he didn't comprehend – but it didn't matter if he understood any of them, Roderich knew he was going to be forced into signing one way or another.

"We'd have to kill you."

Roderich glanced up. "You…would _kill_ me?"

Doctor Josef Goebbels nodded, his smile mocking Roderich more than anything he could say. The infamous liar tapped the contract, his eyes saying everything for him. He didn't even have to open his mouth to make Roderich feel useless.

"This isn't going to be an ownership, correct? The music will still be listed as my own?" Roderich asked, looking over the contract for anything that said they could kill Roderich whenever they felt like they were done with him.

"Of course. You are the author," Goebbels said, his voice growing more impatient with every word.

 _Oh, God, this is bad._ Roderich bit into his cheek, looking down at the paper as if it were a hideous demon trying to steal his soul instead of a simple contract. _This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. If I sign, they're literally going to own me, and if I don't sign they're going to take my music from me illegally and claim it's legal. And then maybe shoot me._

 _Well, at least it can't get any worse than this. I mean, they could kill me right now, but I highly doubt they'd murder me in this exact spot. Bloodstains can't be easy to get out of carpet._

 _Enough of the joking around. What's the worst that could come out of me signing? All I have to do is keep making music, and I think Goebbels said something about better pay. So, I can live with this until the end of the war._

 _Can't I?_

Roderich sighed, realizing he was probably making the wrong decision. But he was a desperate man on the verge of poverty. And to the musician, money was much more important than his own health. _Reichsmarks_ couldn't buy happiness, but they could keep him far from Russia. In the end, that's all that mattered.

He signed his name on the line.

The second Roderich saw Goebbels take the contract back and lock it in a file cabinet, he knew he'd sold his soul. An immense feeling of guilt and regret crushed any joy that he had as Ludwig's comment about the path to Hell came back to mind. Was Roderich standing at the gates of Hell yet? Or was life somehow going to get worse for him?

"I'm rather surprised – I thought you would've put up more of a fight," Doctor Goebbels said, pulling out his wallet. "You artistic types are like that." He handed Roderich a much larger stack of _reichsmarks_ than normal, his grin returning. "I'll call you later with details about the next recording."

" _Danke,_ sir," Roderich replied, tucking the money into his own wallet. He felt empty inside, like some part of him was gone. The extra cash wasn't worth giving up all of his creativity. No longer was he going to write what he felt like – they were going to tell him exactly what they wanted and he would be expected to deliver.

"You don't have to call me 'sir,' Roderich. We're business partners now. To you, I'm Josef."

Something was very wrong about calling the devil by his first name.

* * *

The rain made a steady rhythm for Toris as he worked, shaping the scrap of wood into a wolf that could fit in his palm. All around him was absolute chaos. Sadik and Heracles were shouting at each other in Greek, Raivis was trying to stop the two from tearing each other apart, Eduard and Alfred were taking bets on who was going to throw the first punch, and Arthur was adding his insults to the mix without so much as a glance up from his Agatha Christie paperback. A thunderstorm raged on outside, rain hammering against the windows. Any minute now Toris was expecting Ivan to come out of his office and start yelling at everyone about something or the other. Just another day in Stalag XVIII-A.

It was absolute madness any given time in Barrack Two, pushing Toris closer to snapping. Some days he wanted to do nothing but scream at everyone, and others he was contemplating murder. To control this anger welling up inside of him, he took to searching for broken posts and planks lying around Stalag XVIII-A and carving them into little people and animals. Sometimes when he got angry enough, he'd carve a figure and call it whomever was irritating him, and then stab it repeatedly. It was a morbid form of therapy, but it worked.

"Sadik, I'll give you half of my Red Cross package if you slap Heracles right now!" Alfred shouted despite the fact that they were all in the same small room together.

"That's cheating," Eduard snapped, giving Alfred a hard shove. "I specifically mentioned in the rules that you can't use bribes."

"There's rules? I thought we were just taking bets on who was going to break the other's nose first. I didn't realize everything was so official."

Eduard shook his head. "They do this at least twice a week – we need some sort of law now. Don't you remember me telling you last week?"

"No. Why the hell are there rules for who's going to start a fight?" Alfred groaned.

"Because, people like you cheat."

"It's not cheating!"

"Don't you two have some better way to spend your time?" Arthur asked, flipping a page. "You know, Alfred, maybe you wouldn't be considered such an idiot if you spent your time doing something worthwhile instead of putting money on who's going to hurt who."

"Says the one reading some romance novel," Eduard muttered under his breath.

Arthur rolled his eyes, still not honouring anyone with his full attention. "I'm sorry you're so uncivilized in Siberia that you think _The A.B.C Murders_ is nothing more than a 'romance novel.' But I can understand why you would think that, seeing as you've probably never seen a book in your life. Maybe if you Slavs weren't drunk all the time, you'd have some culture about you."

"Firstly, I'm not from Siberia. Second, I have seen a book. And third, Toris is a Slav too! And look at him being cultured in his lonely corner!" Eduard said, gesturing to the bunk beneath Arthur's where Toris was working. Alfred was the one to christen Toris' bed the "lonely corner" and it unfortunately caught on.

"Please don't drag me into this," Toris said with a sigh. "Just let me work in what little peace I can get."

"What are you making for your boyfriend today, Toris?" Arthur asked, leaning over the edge of his bed to watch Toris work.

"Feliks isn't my boyfriend. And it's a wolf," Toris muttered.

"Right. I've read enough 'romance novels' to know when two people are in love. The main character is always making something for the love interest, and you have enough figures to start a small army."

"I don't love him! He's just a good friend," Toris snarled, beginning the delicate process of carving fur into the wolf. "He asked me to bring him home something from the war, so I thought I'd make him these." He smiled to himself a bit at the thought of the cheery blond, wondering what Feliks was doing. Hopefully he was staying out of trouble – Toris usually was the one to stop Feliks' less than well planned ideas.

His thoughts quickly went back to the last night the two saw each other, a cold night sometime in October. Feliks found out about Toris' enlistment and came over to the man's house in tears, begging for him not to go. They stayed up all night talking, Feliks making plans for them to run away together and Toris killing them with reason. Soon they were nestled close to each other, laughing about things that happened years ago and making promises.

Their final goodbye was a bittersweet glance at the train station, neither of the two having the nerve to say what they really wanted to. And then Toris was taken far away to some Polish village with nothing more than his memories of Feliks.

"Look at that! Toris is smiling!" Eduard announced all too smugly, growing bored with Sadik and Heracles' fight. "Admit it, he's totally your secret lover."

"Feliks is the only friend I've ever had. I don't think I could love him. It would just be awkward," Toris shot back as his face went red.

"You're blushing," Eduard taunted, coming over to the lonely corner. He put his hand on Toris' shoulder like a father would, looking over his glasses. "You know you don't need to be ashamed of anything. We all love you for who you are, Toris. Even if you do have a secret boyfriend who you are denying being in love with."

Toris pushed Eduard away from him, wishing he knew when to shut up. "Just drop it," he snapped. "My relationships are none of your business. I don't ask you constantly about your love lives!"

"We only ask because we care about you," Arthur said gently, his voice drowned out by a clap of thunder.

"Could you stop caring?" Toris asked. "Did you ever think that maybe I'm sick of hearing about Feliks? Or that you're bringing up horrible memories?"

"I didn't think it was –" Arthur started.

"No, you didn't think! You never think about anyone else's feelings beside your own. So you keep laughing. Keep laughing while you remain blissfully ignorant of every _damn_ thing that's happened to me."

"Toris, do you want to talk about it?" Eduard offered, losing his joking smile. Toris brushed him off, returning to the wolf carving. But this time he wasn't working carefully – he tore the knife into the wood, his anger blinding any logical thoughts.

"Toris?" Alfred said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Toris replied through clenched teeth.

 _If only they knew,_ Toris said to himself. _Then they wouldn't even think about talking to me. Are their families slaving away in gulags? Were they forced into the army by a charming conman who's now controlling their lives? Did they happen to get captured and end up at the same camp as said conman?! What are the odds that I'd get sent to the same camp as –_

" _Malyutka,_ were you just shouting?" Ivan asked, appearing from his office. The room went quiet, even Sadik and Heracles stopping their fight. He came over to Toris, his smile void of any real happiness.

 _Speak of the devil._

"Sorry, sir, I just got a little upset," Toris apologized, knowing all too well what was coming next.

"Is this for your friend?" Ivan took the wolf from Toris' hands, looking the figure over. "It's very pretty."

"Thank you, sir." Toris kept his eyes trained on the ground, refusing to look up at the man who'd gotten him dragged into the Soviet army.

All of a sudden, Ivan put his hand under Toris' chin and tilted his head up. "The storm bothers me. You will come sleep with me tonight, yes?" Even though it was meant to be a question, Toris knew it was a demand. He never got a choice.

"Yes, sir," Toris said softly, putting his knife down. Before he got up he stole a glance at the other men, a sort of last cry for help. No one said anything. They all watched him be dragged into the office, unaware of the pain Toris was about to endure. Never once had someone stood up to Ivan – why would they start now?

Ivan pushed Toris into his office, closing the door behind him. Toris instinctively began unbuttoning his shirt, wondering what he could've done to make him angry this time.

"Stop that," Ivan ordered, putting the wolf figure on his desk. Toris felt his heart sink – he was never getting the wolf back. "I am not punishing you tonight."

"…You're not?"

Ivan turned back towards him, indigo eyes flickering with a flash of lightning. His grin was suspiciously gentle, seemingly genuine. "Lay down with me, _malyutka."_

 _Is that what he wants? Strange, he hasn't had me sleep with him in a long time. Then again, why else would he be so…so nice to me?_

Toris took off his boots, sliding into bed next to the man he loathed. Their relationship was almost humorous – Toris told himself he hated Ivan and yet cared deeply for the man, and Ivan loved Toris to pieces and took pleasure in beating him. Even though Ivan was the reason for the scars on Toris' back, Toris couldn't help but want him to be happy. Ivan truly was scared and alone most of the time, and he couldn't stand it. No one deserved to be alone.

" _Malyutka,_ are you listening?" Ivan asked, snuggling close to Toris.

"Yes, sir."

Ivan stifled a laugh, putting a hand to Toris' face. "We are alone. You can call me by my first name."

"Sorry, sir, it just feels wrong." _Along with everything you've ever made me do._ "You're my superior officer."

"Call me Ivan, Toris. That's an order."

"Yes, sir – I mean, yes, Ivan." Toris couldn't stand calling the colonel by his first name; it felt too familiar, like they'd known each other forever. "May I ask what is it you wanted me for?"

"You are very good with stealth missions, yes? You can crack safes?" Ivan asked.

"I suppose. But I can't be all that good about stealth, because I got captured."

Ivan laughed to himself, running his hand down the side of Toris' face. "That does not matter. I need your help."

* * *

"Beilschmidt? Good God, did you stay here all night again?"

Ludwig ignored the man behind him as he pushed another pin into the map, taking a step back. Sure enough, the pins matched up with the hand drawn map of Vienna on his desk. Basch Zwingli was the saboteur he'd been chasing after for weeks now, no doubt about it. But his alibi was perfect – multiple trustworthy people saw him where he said he was – so how could he be in two places at once?

"Are you still on that kid's case?" Hochstetter – the new _kriminalkomissionar_ from Berlin who was much too bubbly to be a seasoned Gestapo agent and had the most startling blue eyes – came over to Ludwig, looking over his work. He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, letting a low whistle out at the sight of the map. "I swear, you're going to let this Zwingli boy eat you up. Just drop the case already."

"But I know he's guilty," Ludwig huffed, leaning back against his desk.

He _knew_ Basch was guilty of every offense he'd ever been dragged into the office for.

But he didn't have the evidence to prove it.

The one piece he had to work with was a map, which fit perfectly into Basch's story. And after dozens of phone calls and investigations, Ludwig found that every single person on the map was one of Basch's customers. It didn't make any sense – was the gunsmith trying to frame his clients? Usually, criminals worked in a pattern with some sort of motive behind their actions. But Basch, he struck at total random, leaving the Gestapo guessing and him out of jail.

"I even used sodium pentothal," Ludwig said, thinking back to the night of the interrogation. "Not only did he stay conscious for a good three minutes longer than most men, he somehow avoided all of my questions and wouldn't shut up about Lake Geneva. I got him to answer one thing – when was his birthday? He always lies to me, and the one damn straight answer was his birthday."

Hochstetter choked on a laugh, holding his gloved hand up to hide his wide grin. "Some people are like that, where they aren't very compliant. Supposedly, it has something to do with the person's personality."

"So, if someone's a complete pain in the ass, they won't respond?" Ludwig asked, looking over the map once again. He was hoping Basch would have a shop he hadn't vandalized yet and he could set up a stakeout. However, every single building that was circled was already painted. Basch was already planning for his next group of victims.

"Listen, Beilschmidt, I like you, but you have to get better about focus," Hochstetter said, plucking the map from Ludwig's hands. "You get so worked up over one small detail that you forget to look at the whole picture. Think about who Zwingli is associated with."

"Absolutely no one. He's an irritating and short loner."

"Come on, he has to have some contacts."

Ludwig thought over the extensive research he'd forced himself through, trying to come up with at least one name. "The only person I can think of is his cousin, a man named Christian Kleiner."

"Good, good. Now, who is Kleiner associated with?" Hochstetter asked.

"What does that have to do with Basch?"

"You automatically assume that his closest friends would be the way to get to him, correct?" Hochstetter went over to the map on the wall, tapping the pin over Basch's house. "But close friends never would tell on their friend. Perhaps this Kleiner is a talkative fellow, though. And maybe he has a good friend, one he thinks he can trust with anything. So, who does Kleiner talk to frequently?"

"...Roderich von Wolffe."

Hochstetter stopped in his cheery tracks. "The Führer's musician? Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Ludwig sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. "I keep close tabs on von Wolffe. He talks to Kleiner at least once a week. But he wouldn't know anything. From what I've gathered, von Wolffe is totally oblivious to the world around him."

"It could be a cover. There's a Spanish agent I met a while back, Antonio something-or-the-other, who plays dumb to catch criminals. I thought he was just an idiot – just like you think von Wolffe is clueless. I'm not saying you interrogate him," Hochstetter added, grabbing a red pin from Ludwig's desk and pushing it into Roderich's home on the map. "But you ought to pay attention to what he says, maybe try to work out a detail or two and build on that."

"There's the thing. He's too cautious with his words. You can tell when he talks; he picks out every word he's going to say carefully. Even talking to him about something as natural as his music makes him think over each sentence."

"So we just have to come up with a way to make him talk without thinking!" Hochstetter came over to Ludwig, his excitement fading with a glance at the man. "Maybe we should talk about this later. You need to go home and get some sleep. It isn't good for you to stay up all night working."

Ludwig folded up Basch's map, tucking it into his pocket. "Ja, I think I know that by now. I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"For sure. And then we can set up our whole plan."

" _Auf Weidersehen,"_ Ludwig said, walking out of his office. He was so tired he could barely walk straight, thoughts of sleep taking over everything else. Ludwig hated himself for working so late – but he got fixated on one thing and wouldn't rest until it was finished.

"Wait, Beilschmidt! I've got it!" Hochstetter called after him, running down the hall and stopping in front of Ludwig. "We have to get von Wolffe drunk! My God, we've got to get him drunk!"

"Can we please talk about this later?" Ludwig asked.

"Ja, ja, ja, sorry, but I just had to tell you. If he's drunk, he'll forget about his words!"

Ludwig shook his head, looking down at the _kriminalkomissionar_ like he'd suggested they jump off a cliff. "We don't even know if he drinks. What if he refuses our offer and gets suspicious?"

"He's working for the officials – he has to be an alcoholic or on some sort of drugs. Everyone working in the inner circle is. So, all we have to do is invite him for a few drinks, and then we have our answers!" Hochstetter was practically jumping up and down as he spoke, his smile getting bigger with each word. "We'll set something up when you get back. Right now, you need to sleep. _Gute Nacht."_

 _"_ _Gute Nacht,"_ Ludwig replied, pushing past Hochstetter and going out to his beloved Mercedes. Once inside, he sat there for a moment and thought over everything that Hochstetter said. Would Roderich really be a drunk?

He seemed much too uptight for that. Roderich von Wolffe was an aristocratic man, not some lowly alcoholic. Still, even the most straight-laced person made mistakes. If he played his cards right, Ludwig could get Roderich drunk. Then again, what if he knew nothing about Basch? It'd be a massive waste of time, time which Basch could use to his advantage.

"Who am I kidding?" Ludwig asked himself as he started on the drive home. "Roderich's probably never touched a beer in his life."

* * *

Roderich staggered out onto the streets of Vienna, grabbing a lamppost to support himself. His lavender eyes searched for the familiar names of the bars, even though he was mostly incoherent and wouldn't have been able to read. However, he shamefully knew the area well enough to remember where the best bars were – even when he was drunk off his ass.

"I told you to go home, Roderich. You could get hurt or in a helluva lot of trouble staying out here as smashed as you are," said the man who'd just thrown Roderich out, a young bartender who'd become well acquainted with the musician over the past year. "Go home."

"Make me," Roderich snarled. "You don't know th' sort of hell I'm going through now. 'F I want to stay out, I'll stay out as late as I damn well please."

"I just don't want you to hurt yourself or say somethin' you shouldn't."

Roderich managed a lopsided smile, walking off in the direction of the next bar. "I'll be fine, kid. I'm…I'm a drunk professional. And besides, it isn't even midnight yet. All the fun starts at midnight."

"If I find you dead in an alley tomorrow, can I have your Stradivarius?" the man called after him.

"Whatever. I don't need Marlene when 'm dead. My life's gone to hell anyway."

The contract from the day before was the whole reason Roderich was even out that night. He'd been sober for a week – which was extremely good by his standards – and decided selling his creative freedom to the devil incarnate was a perfect reason to go out and get drunk. At least this time he had the money for it, so he wasn't going to be without dinner for a few days.

Roderich pushed open the door to a shady little bar, one he'd grown to love. At first he hated the thought of being with people of a substantially lower class than him, but he quickly learned poor people were much more fun to drink with than the aristocrats. And this bar was the lowest of low – but the owners, a spunky Dane and the sternest Norwegian possibly in all of Europe, made it all worth it. For some reason, the duo attracted the best people Vienna had to offer.

"Drunk again? What the hell happened this time, Roderich?" Mathias asked when Roderich came inside. His smile seeming to light up the whole room, which was mostly empty, save for one resident alcoholic who Roderich knew never left the bar, a man with long blond curls in an expensive-looking suit, a man in uniform with a woman nestled next to him, a handful of regulars, and a man with sharp blue eyes. "Got to thinking about 'Lizabeta again?"

"Hell no. That bitch could be getting murdered and I wouldn't do a thing to save her lyin' ass. I got a promotion."

"Promoted to what?" Lukas said to no one in particular, his face hidden entirely by a thick book of poetry. "The Führer's favourite alcoholic?"

"I already was his favourite." Roderich sat down at the bar, looking over at Mathias. "Give me somethin' that'll absolutely kill me."

"Must've been a pretty good promotion," Mathias said over his shoulder as he grabbed a blue bottle and a shot glass.

"That or he's trying to kill himself again," Lukas added. "Remember what happened after Elizabeta? Found him half-dead out back."

Mathias handed Roderich the glass, his grin looking a bit more concerned than happy. "You _aren't_ trying to kill yourself again, are you? I thought promotions were good."

"They are, they are. But I just gave Satan almost every damn thing I still enjoyed. But he can't take drinking from me." He downed the whole shot of whatever was in the glass to prove his point, paying no attention to how bad the liquor burned. To him, the burning was just a sign that he wasn't drunk enough.

"Satan?" Lukas looked up, blue eyes void of any real emotion. "Are you referring to Hitler or someone else?"

 _"_ _Lukas!"_ Mathias hissed, giving the man a slap upside the head.

"It's that son-of-a-bitch, Goebbels," Roderich snapped. Had he been sober, he would've noticed that several people looked at him in varying states of disgust – only he wasn't sober, so it didn't matter.

But Mathias did take notice. "Hey, Roderich, don't say stuff like that. Anyone in here could be a Gestapo agent," he said without the razor edge he'd given to Lukas. "I don't want you to get shot."

"So what 'f I get killed? At this point I'm just waiting for that bullet. I've got a Gestapo man followin' me, a blondie named Ludwig. Damn, that's a cute name, Ludwig. D' you think he gets called Luddy?" Roderich asked. "I'd call him Luddy. He's a real cutie, you know. Like a way too big puppy. I think he's hitting on me, 'cause he keeps running into me and is always super shy. I dunno about you, but I'd kiss 'im if he wanted to kiss. But only, like, a sort of one-time thing, because I'm not into that."

Mathias glanced at Lukas before bursting out laughing, hiding his face with his hands. Even Lukas let an emotion slip, a faint hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Oh, God, you are so smashed right now, Roderich," Mathias gasped through his hysterics. "I've never seen you so drunk."

"I've never seen myself so drunk," Roderich said proudly, running a hand through his dark hair. "But here I am."

"Would you care to go on about this Ludwig?" Lukas asked, actually seeming interested in something other than reading for once.

"Well, he's a lot bigger than me. And he's got a nice car. But he's also got a gun and I don't think he's scared to shoot me. But his eyes. His eyes are gorgeous. Like the ocean, but without all th' fish n' stuff. And sometimes when he smiles, his right eye twitches just a little bit."

"What's his personality like? Even if he is as handsome as you say, you got to take into account how big of an asshole he is. Like Mathias here," Lukas said, motioning to the Dane. "He's rather nice looking, but his personality is atrocious."

"I have a wonderful personality," Mathias muttered under his breath.

"He likes to lie t' people, a lot. But he said that he loved my company. Oh, and sometimes he can get real angry," Roderich added.

"…Remember what I said," a new voice said as the door was thrown open. "Tall, dark hair, glasses, drunk."

"Right."

Out of the blue, a young girl jumped up on the barstool next to Roderich. "Hello," she chirped, giving Roderich a little wave.

"Excuse me, dear, how old are you?" Mathias asked before Roderich could even say a word.

"I'm fourteen, sir. I'm here with my big brother."

Roderich looked over the girl, knowing he'd seen her somewhere. There was something painfully familiar about her braided pigtails and her big innocent eyes. Then all the pieces clicked together. "You're…you're th' girl who was paintin', aren't you?" he asked.

Her face went pale for a moment, a flash of recognition in her blue eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No, I remember you painting. You wrote some bad thing on the wall with a bunch of edelweiss. It was really pretty. You should be an artist."

"Sir, I really don't know what you're telling me."

"Don't harass the kid, Roderich. Sorry, dear, he's totally drunk right now," Mathias apologized for Roderich. "I'd save yourself before he starts hitting on you. One time he nearly made out with Herr Grumpy over here when they were both wasted," he said, motioning to Lukas. "I had to step in before things got serious."

"That was one time. And it wasn't my fault that _someone_ kept spiking my drinks," Lukas growled.

Mathias stuck out his bottom lip in a mock pout. "I can't help it, you're just too cute when you're drunk."

"I am not cute." Lukas went back to his book, done with social interactions for the night.

"Once again, sorry you had to see that, kid," Mathias said, shooting Lukas a worried look. Lukas just rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm fine. It's a lovely night tonight, isn't it?"

It took Roderich a moment to realize the girl was talking to him. He sighed loudly before answering with, "It's bloody marvelous. 'Specially when you're going to Hell. But you can see the North Star, so that's somethin'."

"Oh, my gosh, you're the contact?" Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "That was the recognition code, right? The mention about the North Star? I thought I'd really messed up this time. It's my first rendezvous. So, Basch told me that the bridge out around Klosterneuburg is the next target, and you have the explosives, ja?"

"Roderich, when the hell did you get involved with the Underground?" Mathias asked, keeping his voice as low as the girl's. The whole tone changed in a matter of moments, no longer joking and cheerful.

"I'm not underground. And what are you talkin' about, explosives and shit?" Roderich turned to the girl for an answer. "What are we blowin' up?"

The room suddenly went silent.

"Shut up," Mathias said, leaning in close to Roderich. "I know you are totally incoherent, but you have to be quiet. There could be a Gestapo man here right now, and if you blow this girl's cover, I will take you out back and kill you myself." He looked at the girl, who was as white as the snowy fields of Russia. "Don't worry about a thing, dear. I'll take care of everything. And Roderich, he probably will wind up passing out in the street somewhere and won't remember anything."

"…I ruined everything," the girl half whispered, half sobbed. "Basch trusted me with this, and I ruined it. He just looked like the description Basch gave to me."

"Shh, shh, it's alright," Mathias said, ruffling the girl's hair. "You can wait here until your contact comes. If you need to get out fast, we can help. And please, don't worry about Roderich. I'll take him home."

"I feel like you're leaving me out of somethin'," Roderich huffed, looking from the girl to Mathias. "This is my business now. I want to make something explode."

" _Shut. Up,"_ Lukas snarled.

"Why are you all tellin' me to be quiet? I haven't –" Roderich was cut short by a rough hand being clapped over his mouth.

"I am so sorry he's bothering you," the man with his hand over Roderich's mouth said. "I'll be taking him home now."

"Basch, I –" the girl started.

"I know, Lilli," he interrupted. "But it's alright. I'm going to go take care of it. Right now, I need you to go stay with Christian while I take him back. Make sure he knows we have to leave soon."

"Hold it," Mathias said, leaning over the counter to grab Basch's arm. The blond immediately reached for something in his coat pocket, the scratched wood of a Luger's grip panel barely visible. Mathias backed off, grabbing for his own pistol he kept close. "Basch, we're not going to do this again," he said in a low, dark voice that didn't fit him at all.

"Don't touch me, then," Basch shot back, putting the Luger back in his coat pocket. "You know how I am."

"Do you know Roderich? Because I'm sure as hell not letting a madman like you go out with him."

Basch started to drag Roderich out the door. "Ja, I know him pretty well. I'm just going to make sure he gets home."

Mathias nodded, finally understanding what was going on. "Right. Sorry about Roderich, he really wasn't intending to screw anything up. So, uh, I guess we'll see you next week, then. _Auf Weidersehen."_

 _"_ _Auf Weidersehen!"_ Roderich said.

Basch practically carried Roderich out to the alley, slamming him up against the wall. Roderich was still too out of it to notice the pistol pressed to his temple. "How much do you know?" Basch snarled.

"We're gonna blow somethin' up, right?" Roderich asked excitedly. "I've never done somethin' like that."

"Ah, shit, you're honestly drunk, aren't you?"

Roderich nodded a little too enthusiastically. "I'm drunk ten days out of the week. No, that isn't right. How many days are there in a week? Thirteen? I'm drunk every damn day."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to kill you now just because you're wasted. You could still remember something. So, any last words I can bring home for the family?" he asked as he cocked the pistol.

"I hate my family. They're a bunch of Jews, you know. Tried to raise me 's one." Roderich fully realized what he just said, putting a hand over his mouth. "Oh my God. You didn't hear that. I'm not supposed to tell anyone. Don't say a thing to Josef, please. Oh, God, they're going to kill me!"

"Josef who?"

"Doesn't everyone know Josef?" Roderich asked. "Josef…um…Josef…What the hell is his last name?"

"Goebbels?" Basch finished, intending it to be just a joke.

"That's right! Josef Goebbels! We're good friends now, we can call each other by our first names. I have a concert in two weeks with him. If he found out I'm a Jew-but-not-really-a-Jew, he'd kill me right there. And I don't want to die that way."

Basch took a step back, lowering the gun. "You're…You're that von Wolffe guy, aren't you? My God, I'm trying to kill Roderich von Wolffe. And better yet, he's Jewish!"

"What are you screaming about?" a different voice asked, the well-dressed man coming into the alley with the girl, Lilli, in tow. He caught sight of Roderich, his calm manner disappearing.

"Francis? Are we all having some sort of reunion tonight?" Roderich went over to the Frenchman, only to be slammed up against the wall again.

"The wrong man was Roderich? I thought it was just some drunk we ran into!" Francis came over to Basch, ripping the gun from his hands. "Put this away right now, and don't you dare pull it out again unless Adolf Hitler himself comes down this alley."

" _Heil Hitler!"_ Roderich slurred, holding his arm up in a lazy attempt at the salute.

"And you," Francis snapped, turning on his heels to face Roderich. "You sick bastard, you could've destroyed everything tonight! Why would you jeopardize everything I've done for you?! I made you, von Wolffe! Or should I say, I made you who you are today, _Edelstein,"_ he said in a low voice. "Without me you'd be dead in Auschwitz. You'd be working to death in Mauthausen." He turned to Basch, blue eyes aglow with fury. "How could you not know this is Roderich von Wolffe?!"

"I don't know? I had this mental image of him, some strong Aryan man who wasn't wasted at eleven-fifteen and probably heading off to the red-light district afterwards! And this…this _thing_ right here is a sad excuse for Hitler's musician."

"Are we going to the whorehouse? I don't have a helluva lot of money left," Roderich said, getting himself a sharp kick in the shin from Basch.

Francis paused for a moment before saying anything, still not shaking his anger. "Can I come to your house tonight?" he asked Basch, pulling his own gun from his pocket. He flipped it so he was holding it by the barrel.

"This isn't a good time to be making arrangements!"

"I'm taking that as a yes. Can you drive?"

Basch shook his head. "No, I can't, and what the hell does this have to do with what's going on right now?!"

"Well, it's time you learned to drive," Francis reached into his pocket and removed a ring of keys, tossing them to Basch. "I want you to get my car and pull it up to here. Then you'll have to get out and help me with…" he faltered, motioning to Roderich instead of speaking. "And act natural. We have a _boche_ in our shadow." Suddenly, Basch seemed to understand everything, grabbing Lilli and running off into the night.

Francis came over to Roderich, his face softening for just a moment. "Oh, dear, I don't want you to end up like this. Please, tell me this is just a one-night thing. You're not an alcoholic, are you?"

"I'm sorry Francis," Roderich apologized, looking down at the street. "I'm trying so hard to be good. But I am a drunk. I am a worthless drunk. And now you're mad."

"Dear Lord, please don't hate me for doing what I'm about to do," Francis whispered, raising the butt of the gun above his head. "I am so sorry, this is going to hurt like hell in the morning. Even more than hangovers usually do. I hope you'll forgive me." And with that, he brought the pistol down on Roderich's skull and the musician fell to the street.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, gosh, it's been a pretty rough week here. I'll try to think of something positive to say...**

 **Numbers from Poland is a year old today! Is that positive? God, it's pretty hard to think of working on a story that _isn't_ Numbers.**

 **A bit of a history lesson here for you - _boche_ is French slang used during WWII to refer to German soldiers. It's the shortened form of _alboche_ , which is a portmanteau of the words _Allemand_ (German) and _caboche_ (head or cabbage, depending on what you feel like?) It's basically calling the Germans stupid. Thank you, Robert Clary, for teaching me all these wonderful French insults.**

 **Thank you to** exca314 **,** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** EllaAwkward **,** Chizu5645 **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **! Thank all of you for supporting me and my story!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	7. Stretto

The door creaked open, breaking the rhythm of the night. Basch tore the cigarette out of his mouth, praying it wasn't Lilli behind him. But when he looked over his shoulder, it wasn't his sister standing in the doorway, but a concerned Francis in a blue striped nightshirt. He sighed, knowing Francis wasn't going to leave him be without saying anything.

"Are you…?" Francis didn't bother to finish his sentence, instead coming over and sitting down on the back step with Basch. "I'd never have thought you'd would smoke. But I guess I don't really know everything about you."

"I'm twenty now, I think I can make my own damn decisions," Basch snapped. "You don't have to be such a damn parent about every little thing I do."

Francis kept quiet for a long time after that, much longer than he normally went without saying anything. Basch wondered if he was offended or mad, even considering an apology for a moment. And then he remembered all the trouble Francis had caused him in the past and that night. He wasn't worthy of one of Basch's extremely rare and usually insincere apologies. No, he wasn't worthy of anything, not even his insults. After all, Francis had invited himself to Basch's home and brought a prisoner with him, albeit one of the easiest prisoners to handle in the whole world.

"Can I ask why, or is that too much?" Francis said, throwing Basch's train of thought off the track.

"Why what?"

"Why you smoke. It just seems so out of place for you." Francis paused, choosing his next words carefully so as to not get yelled at. "Ever since I've known you, you've always been the poster child of the family. You're not a lying thief like me, you don't cheat anyone, you're honest, and you do what's best for everyone. And right now, you're looking like me. I'm not trying to say that you shouldn't smoke, but it feels…wrong."

Basch didn't answer.

"You don't have to say anything, I understand," Francis said, giving Basch a tired smile.

"…No, you don't," Basch muttered. "You don't understand anything that's going on right now."

"You're right. I don't know what the hell has even happened tonight. But what I do know is that you're hiding something from me. You don't want me to worry. No one ever wants me to worry." Francis sighed, running a hand through his blond curls. "Honestly, everything was so much easier before the war."

Basch took a drag on his cigarette, the taste of smoke scratching at his throat. He'd never quite gotten used to it. "You're telling me. I turn around for one second and the next thing I know, there's some Nazi big-shot with a list of guns they broke and the parts they need to replace them. And this all has to be on a train to Russia in a day."

"There's so many round-ups going on that I can't keep track of people anymore," Francis admitted. "By the time I get to a family, they're all on their way to Dachau. I'm trying my best, but…"

"It's just too much?" Basch finished.

"Exactly. I get one person their papers and twelve others have already been caught and shot in the back. I'm lying to everyone, saying I can get to them on time." Francis held his head, hiding his eyes with his hands. "I'm a horrible person, Basch."

"And you think I'm any better? I nearly killed Roderich von Wolffe tonight. I've killed people in the past for overhearing things, for breaking my trust. At least you're saving lives, not throwing them away."

Francis looked up at Basch, blue eyes twinkling in the moonlight. "Don't say that. You're doing what's necessary."

"But still, every single time I've killed someone, I look down at them and I wonder what their life would've been like if they never ran into me," Basch said quietly, memories of the people he'd seen dead in alleys and ditches coming back to mind. "I always wonder about their families, what they'll think when they find their husband and father dead under a bridge. How many people have I made hate me?"

"I still love you, no matter what happens." Francis put an arm around Basch, letting his head rest on his cousin's shoulder.

"You've known me since I was two, though. You knew me when I was an innocent little kid who didn't have to worry about who has the nitroglycerin this week. I killed one man before I even knew his name! _I didn't even know his name_ , Francis! He had photo evidence and he was going to the Gestapo. And…and I took him out to the river, put a bullet in his head and kicked him over the bridge." Basch looked up at the pale moon, feeling tears catch at the corners of his eyes. "It was so simple. And that's how it was with Roderich tonight, I thought that I'd do a hit-and-run. It would be a simple and clean murder. I was perfectly fine with killing another man!"

"And aren't you glad you didn't?" Francis asked.

"I…I don't even know what I believe. One moment I'm thinking it's the right thing, and the next I feel like I should turn myself in. I don't know shit about Roderich – he could be the nicest person in Vienna and I still would've shot him right there. And I guess that's what's really getting to me, is that all these people I've killed weren't just pawns, they were real people, real bloody people," Basch choked, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "They were humans, with real families and real lives. And I didn't know anything about them, except that they were a threat to me. Maybe if I'd gotten to know them, I wouldn't have…" he trailed off, letting his tears say everything for him.

"Oh, Basch," Francis said softly, pulling him into a hug. "Don't cry. You're just fine as you are now."

"No, no I'm not! I'm a monster! I'm a killer!" Basch cried out to the darkness.

"I don't think you're a monster. You've made some poor decisions, but who hasn't? And this is coming from the man who's been married three times in the past year."

"You've never killed someone! You've never stood there and looked at a dead body and thought 'I just did that!' You've never come home with blood on your shirt and boots and had your sister see you washing blood off of your arms! And all this because I'm trying to help people! I'm just trying to save whoever I can and I end up killing." Basch looked up at Francis, looking like he could fall apart. "I'm just trying to help. And all I can do is hurt. Face it, I'm doing more harm with the Resistance. I should just stay out of it all."

Francis couldn't think of a good counterargument. He only held Basch, providing the shred of support Basch needed in his life. For years Basch had done nothing but hold up other people; Lilli, the families that came through the Underground, even Francis.

And now he needed someone to support him more than ever.

"Can I tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone?" Basch asked quietly.

"I wouldn't tell a soul."

Basch took a shaky breath. "I'm…I'm scared. I'm scared for Lilli's sake, I'm scared for yours, I'm scared for my own. I don't want anything to happen to my family. I don't want any of you to get hurt because of me. That's why I smoke – all the fear builds up to the point where I can't take it, and I need something to take my mind away from everything. I try to act like I'm strong, but really I'm just as afraid as anyone else."

"It's perfectly fine to be scared. Do you think Hitler isn't afraid that his whole campaign could fall to pieces if America joins the war? And what about the soldiers going off to war? I don't think every single one of them is brave. Everyone's terrified of something. The difference between people who stay scared for the rest of their lives and the strong ones is that the strong ones don't let their fears hold them back. They leave them so far behind that they can never catch up."

"My fear's already ahead of me," Basch said.

"I don't think so. Would someone who's afraid go out and blow up bridges for fun?" Francis asked with a half-hearted laugh.

"I guess not…" Basch looked down at the stone steps, the look in his eyes telling Francis he was really thinking. "Hey, would you tell me about who Roderich really is?"

"If you want me to," Francis said, letting Basch go. "I mean, you know me. I tend to ramble."

Basch shrugged. "We have all the time in the world."

"Don't say I didn't warn you. So, I like to think Roderich has two sides – the von Wolffe that I created, and Edelstein. Von Wolffe is just who you expect him to be; gentlemanly, strong-willed, a bit of a charmer, intellectual. This is the side he puts on for Hitler and his men, because it's what they want to see out of their citizens. I wrote him that way, knowing the Nazis would eat him up.

"But then there's Edelstein, his real personality," Francis continued. "Roderich Edelstein is a total catastrophe of emotions and fear, he's rather hopeless, lonely, and sometimes woefully desperate. He is scared every minute he's awake, thinking someone's going to find out about his Jewish family. And he's also gentle, talented, loving, careful, and more selfless than any man I've ever met. He'd take a bullet for a stranger.

"And Edelstein listens. He hangs on to every word you say, like it's your final one. Not only does his listen to people, but to the world around him. To Edelstein, everything is music. That's why he listens so close to everything, to see if it's music he could borrow for his own. I think he hears things differently than we do. Sometimes he'll stop talking just to focus on the sound of a car engine or the wind, and suddenly he has his little book out, writing a new piece. I can remember one time we were talking about an air raid, and he said, 'Those sirens are in the wrong key. They should try F major, it would fit much nicer.'"

Francis looked over at Basch, at his green eyes searching the sky for something he was never going to find, the glowing end of his cigarette, the way his blond bangs fell into his eyes. He'd never thought of his cousin as being afraid – he was the one to bring home snakes and get into fights. But just like Roderich, Basch had another side, one most people didn't get to see.

"Air raid sirens in the key of F major," Basch said to himself as he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. "Sounds fancy."

"Oh, darling, those sirens are playing in the most atrocious key!" Francis mocked an aristocrat's whiny voice, sticking his nose up in the air.

"They should change to F major," Basch added in the same obnoxious voice.

Francis couldn't help but smile. "It would be simply marvelous in F major. Then, while the Brits are trying to murder us, we could think of all the wonderful dances we could be having."

"Wait here," Basch said, standing up and disappearing into the house. Moments later, he returned with a record player and a few records tucked under his arm. In a matter of seconds, a scratchy waltz floated through the night.

"May I have this dance?" Basch asked, holding out his hand.

"Oh, my, getting a little romantic, are we?"

Basch smiled. "For now, we're celebrating. We have the Führer's favourite alcoholic musician locked up in my basement and there's nothing the world can do about it. That deserves some sort of reward, other than crying and talking about the war."

"What a rebel," Francis said, taking Basch's hand. "I do love myself a bad boy."

* * *

Elizabeta watched as the searchlights ran across the bedroom wall, illuminating the mint green paint with a sharp yellow. She'd gotten so accustomed to the lights that she knew exactly when they were going to flood through the windows again, bleeding through the curtains. Every night she watched those lights until she fell asleep in Gilbert's arms.

She glanced over at the sleeping Prussian, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Gilbert was nothing short of a Casanova, however, when he was asleep, he was somehow more charming. Perhaps it was because she could see Gilbert as he truly was – innocent and young. Working all day made him seem so much older, so much more mature, a totally different man from who Elizabeta fell in love with.

Her Gilbert was in love with the whole thought of war. It was the Prussian blood running through his veins, the same his ancestors had spilled in their numerous wars. Gilbert lived for the adrenaline rush of a battle, for the smell of gunpowder and the rumbling of panzers. He loved to tell his war stories in vivid detail, describing every minute thing about the battlefield. His favourite to retell was the invasion of Poland, about the feeling that swarmed over him when he stepped across the border.

" _It was raw power,"_ he would say, crimson eyes gleaming with a long buried exhilaration. " _All at once, I realized no one could stop me. I was a scrawny little captain, but that day, I was the whole Wehrmacht. In my body was everything – the Heer, the Kreigsmarine, and the Luftwaffe."_

He was so confident, so cocky, so sure of himself that he didn't see the grenade.

Elizabeta couldn't forget the day she got the notice about Gilbert being seriously injured in a skirmish with the Polish resistance. That was the day she left Roderich for good, leaving him nothing but a short goodbye note and her wedding ring. She took everything she felt she owned with her, packing up the letters she'd secretly exchanged with Gilbert, promises of meetups and when his next leave was.

All the way to the hospital on the German-Polish border, she wondered how a one-night stand had gotten so out of control. Gilbert Beilschmidt was her biggest mistake. And yet, Elizabeta was willing to leave her husband of five years for a colonel she'd met one lonesome night in Vienna. There was something about Gilbert that Roderich didn't have, something called adventure. He was an accident, sure, but he was an adventure. A bold, beautiful, different, electrifying escapade.

The man that greeted her at the hospital was not that adventurous colonel she remembered from the sinful nights. He was shattered. Physically, he couldn't hear out of his right ear, stitches ran up and down his body, and his right leg was in total ruins, thankfully intact. But something inside of him was broken when he was told he couldn't return to battle. A little piece of him died the day he was given his new orders for Stalag XVIII-A.

Now he wasn't running through fields of wheat with a rifle in hand, he was organizing reports. Gilbert stood at the fence every time a panzer division came by, watching with empty eyes and a sad smile. He wanted to be part of the world beyond the fence so badly, to run and shout and _live_ again. Behind all the razor wire and guard towers, Elizabeta could see that he felt like a caged animal, begging to be set free.

"Oh, Gilbert," she whispered, putting a hand to the man's face. She could feel the scars under her fingers, subtle reminders of the life once lived. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

Gilbert's mouth twitched into a smile, the same grin he'd given her that first night in Vienna.

"Someday you'll get to go fight your war. They'll get desperate, start searching for cute colonels to raise hell in Russia," Elizabeta said, kissing his forehead. "And you'll give them all the hell they want."

She closed her eyes, thinking of how animated Gilbert got when listening to the news. He'd yell things back at the announcer, cheer, bring up war stories, and –

 _Crash!_

Elizabeta instinctively reached for the gun she kept in the gap between the bed frame and the mattress, holding it up with shaky hands. Her heart pounded in her chest as she scanned the shadows of the room, half-expecting a pair of eyes and to be looking back.

"S-s-sorry, sir – I mean, sorry, I-I-Ivan," a stifled voice said in perfect Russian.

"Why don't you make some more noise?" Ivan snarled.

Elizabeta took a deep breath – it wasn't an intruder, but another one of Ivan's raids. And he must've dragged Toris along for the ride. Only a thin wall separated the bedroom and the actual office, meaning Elizabeta could hear anything that went on in the other room. What was he looking for this time? Cigars? Money? Papers? His final bit of sanity? Whatever it was, she was going to have to stop it yet again. Gilbert could sleep through anything, and Ivan's break-ins were no exception.

She got out of bed, keeping the gun at her side. Sometimes Ivan was armed; she didn't want him to have any advantage on her. Elizabeta slipped into the front room, going over to the door that connected their "home" to the office. Silently, she inched open the door, looking into the darkness. The searchlights went by right on schedule, outlining the two men huddled by the safe. Toris had his ear pressed to the lock, twisting it carefully, while Ivan sat next to him, talking quietly. On the floor were the remains of an ashtray, gleaming in the moonlight.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so mad," Ivan said. Thank God Gilbert made her learn Russian – without it, she'd be completely lost. "I just really don't want to get caught on this one."

"I understand. I mean, with the papers they could unlock everything about Edelstein. And I had to go be dumb and break things," Toris replied.

 _Oh, my God, how do they know about Roderich?_ Elizabeta said to herself, feeling the guilt rise in her throat. _What are they going to do with those papers, turn him in? No, if those papers were the key to Roderich, Gilbert would've already handed them to the Gestapo. So, if they aren't trying to get him caught…are they protecting him?_

"Who would've thought a Russian would own his life to some pathetic Jew?" Ivan turned to Toris, dark eyes that were so painfully similar to Roderich's watching the man work. "Of all the people in this wretched world, why me?"

"I don't know. But still, I think it's nice you're doing this for him." Toris pulled his head away from the safe, putting in the combination. Both Ivan and Elizabeta waited with bated breath as the lock clicked and the door swung open.

"Thank you, Toris." Ivan grabbed a folder from the depths of the safe, pushing the door closed. He looked at the folder for a moment before pulling Toris into a hug. "Thank you so much, little one."

"I'm just doing what's right," Toris said numbly, too startled to say much more.

Ivan opened the folder, flipping through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. "He won't be needing this anymore," he said as he ripped it out, grabbing the cigarette lighter from Gilbert's desk. A tiny flame flared up in the dark room, eating away at the page. Ivan watched it burn until the fire was licking at his fingers, and then threw it on the ground and smothered the remains.

He stood up, going over to the open window. "You're so perfect, Toris. I shouldn't have ever dragged you into this with me."

"Oh, no, sir, I'm glad I'm in the army," Toris shot back all too quickly to be honest. "I wouldn't have met my brothers without it."

"You don't mean it. I should've just left you alone, gone back home. But this isn't the time to talk about that," Ivan added.

"It isn't."

The two froze, neither of them wanting to turn and face the inevitable. For an eternity they stood in the silence, waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally, Ivan groaned and threw the folder down on the ground, turning on his heels to face Elizabeta. "Well, look who decided to show up. I suppose you're going to report us to your husband?" he growled, stomping his boot down on the report.

" _Gute Nacht, Frau_ Beilschmidt," Toris said shyly, looking down at his feet. He always was one of the humbler prisoners. "I'm so sorry if we woke you up."

"Why aren't you stammering?" Elizabeta dared to ask, walking over to the second lieutenant. Something was deathly wrong with Toris if he wasn't stuttering or trembling in the face of danger. Even something like someone shouting was enough to make him shake – so why wasn't he doing it now?

Toris smiled. "I'm not scared."

Before she knew what was happening, Toris had her pinned to the ground with a knife at her throat. She started to scream, but Toris clamped his hand over her mouth. He tore the pistol from her hand, tossing it to Ivan. The colonel nodded approvingly, grabbing the folder from the floor and walking over to Elizabeta.

"My, my, this must be terribly embarrassing," he scoffed, giving her a nudge in the side. "Getting held to the ground by one of my weakest and unthreatening men? No offense, Toris."

"None taken."

Ivan knelt down next to Elizabeta, thumbing through the folder. "This is all we wanted. A simple report on Roderich von Wolffe. No harm to you. But you just _had_ to go and put up a fight," he said, shaking his head. "And now you're at Toris' mercy."

"Let me tell you a secret, _Frau_ Beilschmidt." Toris leaned in so close Elizabeta could smell the warm, earthy scent of a field that clung to his uniform. "I. Am. Absolutely. Insane," he whispered, enunciating every word perfectly.

Elizabeta couldn't do anything to defend herself but shake her head.

"Oh, yes, I am mad. Something inside of me snapped a long time ago. Maybe it was seeing my family be dragged away to the gulags. Or perhaps seeing Nazis rip up my village." Toris gave her another grin. "And when people threaten what I love, I get rather defensive."

"Don't do anything you might regret, little one," Ivan ordered, going over to the window and swinging one leg out.

"I'm just planning to scare her, sir. Maybe a cut here or there."

"Well, I'll see you at roll call, then. Thanks for the gun, Lizzie. I'll return it when I get the chance." Ivan jumped out of the window, leaving Elizabeta with just Toris. He checked over his shoulder to see if Ivan was gone, and then immediately backed off of Elizabeta, putting the knife back in his uniform. She backed far away from the madman, pressing her back to the wall.

"Oh, m-m-my God, are y-y-you alright?" Toris asked, pulling away from the woman. "I d-d-didn't hurt you?"

"…What? Didn't you just want to kill me a moment ago?!"

Toris took a shaky breath to calm his stutter before answering. "I didn't want to kill you, and I never want to. But Colonel told me to get aggressive, and you _were_ threatening him, so I had to do something. I didn't mean to scare you."

"What did you think you were going to do when you put a knife to my neck?!"

"Again, I really am sorry," Toris said, looking down at the floor shamefully. "I was just doing what was necessary. You're not going to tell the commandant, are you? And please, don't say anything about the knife. I know I'm not supposed to have it, but I paid good money for it and what else can I use to carve with?"

Elizabeta couldn't think of a reply. Was she really going to tell Gilbert? Yes, Ivan's office raids did need to be stopped and if Gilbert interfered there would be a better chance of them coming to an end, but at the same time, she was protecting Roderich's secret. It was a question of loyalty – would it be Roderich or Gilbert? Either way could end horribly.

"I'll let you go," Elizabeta said before she could stop herself. She didn't know why she chose Roderich – maybe after betraying him so much, the least she could do was keep his secret safe.

" _Danke, Frau_ Beilschmidt."

"How do they say thank you in your language?" she asked, looking up at Toris. She'd known the man for so long, yet knew nothing about him other than his name. "I know you're not a Russian. Your voice is different."

" _My_ language?" he said with a smile. "Oh, God, I haven't spoken my language in years. _Ačiū, Frau_ Beilschmidt. Thank you."

"What language is that?"

Toris shook his head. "It's a secret. As far as you know, I am a loyal Russian citizen."

* * *

Ludwig marched up the steps to Gestapo Headquarters, balancing a box full of new files as he unlocked the door. Once inside, he blinked a few times to get his eyes adjusted to the void that was the hallway. Already he was imagining a killer lurking in the shadows with a knife, ready to slit Ludwig's throat as an act of revenge. Over the short month he'd been in Vienna, he'd made plenty of enemies. At least one had to want vengeance bad enough to wait all night in Gestapo Headquarters.

Taking a deep breath, he locked the door behind him and began the maddening walk to his office. He couldn't turn on the lights – it was early in the morning and the few men they were temporarily holding wouldn't take kindly to being suddenly blinded – so he had to walk in total darkness. Headquarters was a different place in the dark, and Ludwig was ashamed to admit that he was absolutely terrified of it. Even the click of his boots on the tile was enough to make his heart race.

"Good morning," a voice hissed from the shadows of a cell, making Ludwig immediately tense up. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Ja, do you have something for us?" another man asked.

"It's none of your business," Ludwig growled, walking as fast as he could without running towards his office. Once he was there, he could actually breathe again. The savages they kept locked up were normally pitiful – but they had an advantage in the dark.

"He's scared, isn't he?"

"Oh, absolutely terrified."

"I can't believe they're letting men like him run the police force."

Ludwig turned on his heels, looking into the pitch black for the wolfish eyes of a convict. "I am not scared of you. Shut up."

"Prove it."

"I don't have to prove anything to you," Ludwig huffed, fishing his keys from his pocket. He shoved the one labeled "office" into the lock.

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?" the devilish voice called. "You think I'm some sort of beast? That I might suddenly break through the cell and rip out your throat?"

"I am not scared of a lowly criminal like you."

"I don't believe you."

Ludwig put the box of files down, going over to the cell on the wall. He could barely make out the shape of a man against the wall, silhouetted by moonlight. "You should be the one afraid right now," he snarled, putting his hand on his gun. "I'm all alone in Headquarters. I could kill you right now and claim it was an act of self-defense. My superiors wouldn't even blink."

"But you won't kill me," the man laughed. "You're scared to kill people."

"And just where did you find that out?"

The silhouette shrugged. "I've been around, Ludwig Beilschmidt. Three weeks ago, you found my friend hiding a family of Jews. You got into a big fight with him, pinned him to the wall with a gun at his head. You said you were going to kill him right there. But you couldn't pull the trigger. Face it, you may pretend to be a cold Gestapo man, but you have too big of a heart."

"I wanted your friend to suffer," Ludwig shot back, his voice much weaker than it was moments ago. "If I would've killed him, it would've been a quick and easy end."

"Right. Stop lying to yourself. You're scared, Ludwig. You're afraid of killing someone. You don't want to live with that guilt for the rest of your life. Well, let me tell you a secret. Once you put a bullet in someone's head, it doesn't seem all that bad. The first one is always the hardest. Take it from an expert; I shot my first man when I was eleven. And I've got seven more under my belt."

"Which is exactly why you're being transferred to Mauthausen," Ludwig snapped, feeling an all new anger rise in his chest. This man was treating Ludwig like he was a child – and while Ludwig knew he was correct about most things he'd said, that didn't give him the right to talk so freely.

"I don't care. I'd rather be a dead man than a scared man," he said.

"And I'd rather be alive than be condemned as a murder and worked to death," Ludwig replied, turning his back on the man. "It's been a pleasure talking to you."

"Same. If I make it through this damned war, you should come visit me. Maybe I can teach you how to really kill someone."

"You're not going to make it out of this alive," Ludwig growled in a low voice, unlocking his office door. He grabbed the box of files from where he'd left it, looking over his shoulder for one last glance at the silhouette. "You're going to rot in Mauthausen. And I won't feel an ounce of sympathy."

"Good, I wasn't expecting any," the man hissed.

"Have fun working until you die." And with that, Ludwig slipped into his office and slammed the door. The temporary prisoners were quite possibly the most irritating men Vienna had to offer. They seemed to be unafraid of being beaten or shot for what they said, so they loved to call out anyone who walked down the hall.

 _They've all lost their will to live,_ Ludwig said to himself, going over to his desk. _And I don't blame them. But to tell me I have a good heart? Does he even know who he's talking to? If I'd been the one to interrogate him, he wouldn't dare to move around me._

 _Then again, I couldn't kill that man. I could've ended his life right there, and I didn't. He looked so desperate, so achingly desperate_. _Maybe I really do have too big of a heart. But how can you look someone in the eyes and kill them? How can someone watch someone else's life slip away? I may be mean, but I'm not that cruel. I can't even think of the guilt that weighs down on you, knowing you took someone's life. I really ought to get over that._

 _It's probably a good thing I didn't go into combat._

Ludwig sighed, grabbing one of the new files. Thinking about murder wasn't going to get work done. He opened the cover of the folder, looking at the photo stapled to the left corner. The boy in the picture didn't look like he could be a criminal, with his doe eyes and bright smile. Everything about him was sweet and soft, not like the usual hardened convicts.

"Captain Feliciano Vargas," he read aloud, looking from the name to the photo. "It certainly fits. Convicted of…deserting?" Ludwig asked himself, rereading the lines where criminal offenses were labeled. Sure enough, deserting was listed.

 _Is that a crime now? I mean, if the kid wants out of the army, let him out. He looks like he six. And he's much too pretty to die at the hands of some madman._

 _…Pretty? Good God, Ludwig, you've got to start getting more sleep._

He signed his name on the bottom of the page, slamming the file closed and opening a new one. The picture in this one was nearly identical to Feliciano's, only this man had a bit darker hair. And he certainly wasn't as cheery, looking like he probably could kill someone without a second thought.

"Lovino Vargas, convicted of inciting a riot," he said as he signed his name at the bottom of the page. "What is even going on in Italy?"

Ludwig was about to grab another folder when the door to the office was suddenly slammed open, Hochstetter standing in the doorway barefoot and holding his jacket, boots, and tie. He looked like he'd just woken up, blond hair still tousled and face unshaven.

"Beilschmidt! You are never going to guess what happened last night!" Despite it being seven in the morning on a Monday, Hochstetter was smiling. Once again, he was way too cheery for the circumstances of being a Gestapo man, his grin and unkempt appearance making him look more like a young boy than a fully grown dangerous _kriminalkomissionar_.

"Sir, I don't have the time to play games," Ludwig muttered, figuring Hochstetter had something completely useless to say.

He came over to Ludwig's desk, slamming his hand down on the polished oak. "I know _exactly_ how we're going to get to Zwingli!"

"That's nice," Ludwig said absently, carrying on with the criminal files. He'd grown used to tuning out Hochstetter's rambling, so used to it that he didn't even realize what the man said.

"Did you hear me? Basch Zwingli?"

Ludwig glanced up for a second. "What about Zwingli?"

"Not only did I confirm Roderich von Wolffe is an alcoholic," Hochstetter carried on proudly. "But, he is tied directly to Basch Zwingli."

"…Are you serious?"

Hochstetter nodded overenthusiastically. "I was at a bar on the edge of town last night, and I swear to the Führer himself that I saw von Wolffe come in, totally drunk. He was talking with the owners, and they acted like it was normal for him to be wasted. Then, Zwingli came in with his sister. He ended up taking von Wolffe out to the alley, where I guess he must've passed out, because some blond man who was also with them ended up carrying Roderich to a car."

"Was his hair around shoulder length and curly?" Ludwig asked, barely able to contain the excitement in his voice. He'd been working on arresting Basch ever since he came to Vienna – and he'd finally found his key.

"Ja. Do you know him?"

"That's Christian Kleiner, Zwingli's cousin."

"Oh, right, I have some things for you!" Hochstetter held up his jacket, shoving his hand in one of the pockets and removing two photographs. "Look at this!"

Ludwig took one of the photos from his hand, examining the little scene before him. Just as Hochstetter said, Ludwig could tell Roderich was drunk from the way he was leaning on Basch and his stupid smile. It didn't appear like Basch hated the man and wanted to stab him – he looked as irritatingly confident as he always did.

The second picture was outside of Basch's home, with Lilli holding the front door open, Basch keeping watch from the porch with a pistol in hand, and Christian carrying Roderich bridal-style. It all seemed so natural for them; no one looked concerned, no one seemed to be in a hurry, and Christian was even smiling. They weren't strangers who happened to run into each other.

"I'm pretty good with a camera, huh?" Hochstetter asked, taking the photos and two pushpins from Ludwig's desk. He went to the map on the wall, pinning them in the corner. "Now, all we have to do is find Roderich one night and interrogate. He's going to tell us everything."

"I just can't believe you found them all at once. Of all the places to be in Vienna," Ludwig said, pushing the files aside. "How did they all meet up?"

"I have no idea. The stars must've aligned perfectly for me. That or they arranged it all." Hochstetter sat down in the chair in front of Ludwig's desk usually reserved for criminals. "So, what have you got for plans?"

"Didn't you say you had plans? You knew exactly how to get to Zwingli?"

Hochstetter shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't really have anything. I was hoping you'd shove your plan in my face first."

"Sir, even though you don't act like it, you still are my superior officer," Ludwig said. "I wouldn't do something like that."

"Oh, right, sorry," he apologized half-heartedly, pulling on his boots. "I forget sometimes, since you're only a few months younger than me."

"Now, about the plans." Ludwig looked over the papers scattered on his desk, trying to find one good idea in the lot. "I think our best bet is to find von Wolffe when he's already drunk. Inviting him to go drink would lead him to be overly suspicious, and he likely wouldn't trust us enough to the point of drinking himself senseless. I don't want to ruin any ties I might have with him."

"Right. So, do we put men at bars and wait? That seems too time consuming."

"I was planning on studying his patterns to find the bar he visits most often. And even then, once we find out where we're going to find him, we still have to figure out when."

"That's easy," Hochstetter said, leaning back in his chair. "You said he had a concert last Saturday, right? And he was drunk on Sunday. All we have to do is find out about his next concert."

* * *

" _Guten Morgen,"_ Francis said as Basch came into the kitchen, disregarding the glares his cousin was giving him. "How did you sleep?"

"Don't go being all friendly with me. I didn't even invite you here, and yet here you are at my table, taking up my space," Basch snapped, sitting down opposite of the man. He seemed to have no memories of the night before, acting as hostile as ever.

Francis smiled – he should've know the kindness wouldn't last. "Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine? And by the way, you're completely out of eggs. Don't you ever go shopping?"

"I was planning on doing it today, but you _had_ to drag Hitler's favourite drunk musician into my house. And who gave you the right to go through my things? If you want something to eat, you're going to work for it!" Basch slammed his hand down on the table to emphasize his point, which did absolutely nothing to scare Francis.

"Why, I thought you would have it in you to share," Francis said. "After all, we are beloved cousins. Now, we need to talk about the state of our prisoner."

"He hasn't destroyed anything, has he?" Basch asked, thinking of all the damage that could be done in his basement. "Because, I will make him pay for everything and more."

"Oh, no. I've been up with him since six this morning when he started pounding on the door like a madman and you didn't do a thing. To give you a brief summary, he panicked when he woke up in your cellar and spent a good twenty minutes screaming at me to let him go, and then I got him calmed down and I told him everything he did last night, but didn't explain the whole Underground mishap. After that he spent the next two hours complaining about literally anything, and now he's spent the past thirty minutes sobbing and throwing up in your bathroom. So, I've been through hell and back this morning while you were sleeping."

Basch didn't say anything for a long time. And when he finally did speak, all he said was, "You know that you're not supposed to let prisoners walk around free, right?"

"I felt bad for him. After all, he's hungover and I didn't make things any better with the gun."

"What are we even going to do with him? He's nothing more than a drunkard who happens to be up there with the Führer." Basch got up, going over to the stove and grabbing the pot of coffee Francis had made. "And if my personal Gestapo agent comes over again and we've got _the_ Roderich von Wolffe-Edelstein here with us whining about how he was held against his will in a basement for hours, he'll finally have something to convict me of and drag me off to Mauthausen."

"Again with the optimism! How do you stay so cheery, my little hedgehog?" Francis asked.

"Don't call me 'hedgehog' ever again."

"I can't help myself," Francis said with a mocking grin, reaching over and tugging at Basch's shirt. "You're just so prickly."

"That doesn't make me a hedgehog!" Basch swatted his hand away, obviously restraining himself from grabbing a kitchen knife and throwing a dead body down in the cellar.

"Oh, you're just no fun at all. Come on, hedgehog, laugh a bit! We have an acclaimed musician as our prisoner, which could very easily get us arrested on multiple charges! Even better, he probably doesn't trust any of us, even me," Francis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We're on a thin line between life and death, Basch. If that Gestapo man you've told me about comes by, we are all getting shipped straight to a concentration camp, including Roderich. But at the same time, we could sell him out while he's still here. And then again, that would be basically asking for my own death."

Basch shrugged, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Well, shit, that just makes everything seem better. We need to come to an agreement with him, now. He can blackmail me; I can blackmail him right back. If he agrees not to talk, I won't talk."

"…You've already made him hate you, hedgehog. Roderich is selfless, but when someone puts a gun to your head, would you try to save their life? He'll go straight to the Gestapo, even if he says he'll keep his end of the deal. I've worked with him since 1933, and he will do almost anything to save himself, even though he's suicidal. Quite contradicting quirks, don't you think?"

"Oh, great, he's going to go behind my back and tell the Gestapo? And then he's going to kill himself?" Basch slammed the mug down on the counter, storming off for the door. "Well, two can play at this game. You keep him here," he ordered, throwing the door open. "If Ludwig – the Gestapo man – shows up, lead him straight to that bastard and tell him everything. I am not going to let some bipolar man get my family arrested."

"Will you stop and think about this rationally?" Francis snapped. Basch stopped, looking over his shoulder at his cousin.

"I'm thinking a lot more rationally than you are at this point," he snarled. "You're treating Roderich like he didn't just ruin the entire operation last night. We could all be in a jail cell right now, and you don't think turning him in first is a good idea?!"

"Do you even realize what is going to happen if you tell the Gestapo? Firstly, I doubt anyone will believe you, seeing as you're getting the shit beat out of you in their offices every week. And then you have to remember Roderich is tied directly to me. If you say something, they'll trace it right back to yours truly." Francis motioned to himself, pushing blond curls from his eyes. "And then I'll be dead. Won't you feel simply awful?"

Basch rolled his eyes and came back inside, letting the door slam shut behind him. He was just too easy to manipulate – he cared for his little family in Vienna far more than he was willing to admit.

Basch snatched his coffee off of the counter, sitting back down at his spot opposite Francis. The Frenchman couldn't help but smile at how concerned Basch really was. "I'm not doing this for you," he growled, face growing red with a glance at Francis' grin. "I just don't want him to snitch on me."

"Right. And you also didn't think I was a girl until you were six," Francis said.

"That's your own damn fault for keeping your hair so long!" Basch grabbed the nearest thing, a spoon, and threw it at the Frenchman. Francis caught the spoon mid-air and tossed it into the sink, sticking out his tongue.

"What are you, still six?" Basch asked.

"Probably. Speaking of children, can you remember the summer you spent with me in Paris?"

Basch sighed loudly, looking like he could use another spoon to throw. "And you thought it was absolutely hilarious to push me in the river? Ja, I remember walking home soaking wet quite well."

"That wasn't the part I was thinking of, but that was a good one on my part," Francis said with a bit of a laugh in his voice. "I was thinking of when I taught you the wonders of blackmail. And now here we are, fifteen years later, going right back to blackmail to save ourselves."

"It was with that kid, Jean? And we caught him stealing from the newspaper man when we were trying to steal from the man. You…oh, God, I can't believe I'm going to say this." Basch ran a hand through his hair as if to mentally prepare himself. "You were actually really smart, making that kid give us half of his earnings. I can't believe he didn't realize he was getting the short end of the stick."

"You called me smart?" Francis asked, too stunned to say anything else. "And you honestly meant it! Basch Martin Luther Zwingli thinks I'm smart!"

"Whoever is shouting can go kill themselves right now."

Francis looked up at the hungover musician, feeling all the liveliness fade from the room with him. "I see you're better now."

"So you're the one who kidnapped me?" Roderich said without so much as a glance Francis' way, going straight to Basch. "Rather short for my tastes." He paused for a moment, looking over the Swiss carefully. "Oh, I remember you. You're the one the Gestapo wanted for the vandalism, aren't you? Zwingli?"

Basch crossed his arms, refusing to make eye contact with Roderich. "And you're the one that told on me? You're a shit scapegoat, von Wolffe." The corners of Basch's mouth flicked up into a smug grin. "Or should I say, Edelstein?"

"You know, I normally would've tried to strangle you, but at this point I feel so dead on the inside I don't think I can do anything," Roderich said, sitting down at the table with them. He put his head down, looking over at Francis pathetically. "Was it really necessary to knock me out?"

"It's much easier to handle people when they're out," Basch answered for Francis. "Especially whiny musicians who shouldn't interfere in other people's business."

Roderich sighed and closed his eyes. "Of all the people I would think to be involved in the Underground, I never would've guessed you would be, Francis. And certainly not in a close relationship with that bastard," he said, motioning to Basch.

"This bastard is about ready to bury you out back with a bullet in your head. Don't go talking shit about me when you're a bloody worthless Jew –"

"Alright, since I can see that I'm going to be stuck with you for a while longer, let's get something straight," Roderich quickly interjected. "Hello, my name is Roderich Edelstein, yes, my father was a Jew, no, my mother was not, and yes, I was partially raised as a Jew. However, I am twenty-five now and can make my own decisions about what sort of life I want to follow. Surprise, I am no longer Jewish. Now, if you could keep your anti-Semitic insults and comments to yourself, that would be great."

"Since we seem to be introducing ourselves now, I'm Basch Zwingli. Say a word to me about my height again and I'll cut you. I am in the Underground, in a subsect called Vienna's Angels. I have ruined seventeen bridges and roadways, sent twenty-eight families to Switzerland, and delivered several important documents to England by way of my guns. The girl you were talking to last night, Lilli, is my adopted sister, and if you lay a finger on her you can say goodbye to everything you've ever loved. And that suave son of a bitch over there is my cousin," Basch added, gesturing to Francis.

Roderich sat upright again, holding out his hand. Basch grudgingly took it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Basch. I'm glad it was you that kidnapped me and not some normal psychotic human."

* * *

 **A/N: Whoops, this chapter really got out of hand. Again, I'll try and keep this short and sweet.**

 **Heer, Krigsmarine, Luftwaffe - the German army, navy, and air force, in that order. The Waffen-SS was also in there. Collectively called the Wehrmacht, each section had much more men than the Treaty of Versailles allowed. They controlled 3,898,000 square kilometers of Europe, which is a hell of a lot of land. They lost 11,300,000 men by the end of the war, most killed in action.**

 **Thank you to** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** everythingisdragons **,** Abc **,** CaptainAzenor **,** TrefleV **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **! You guys are all awesome, and I appreciate the reviews/favourites so much!**

 **Wir sehen uns nächsten Kapitel! (Guess who's learning German!)**


	8. Scherzo

The sky was a sullen ash grey as the prisoners of Barrack Two lined up for morning roll call, the air thick with the smell of rain. With the promise of rain came a miserable feeling that swallowed everything whole. Storms were the worst things in the small world of Stalag XVIII-A, next to all privileges being revoked or snow. At least with snow, the prisoners were excused from work details – but the commandant didn't care about them working in the rain. He seemed to enjoy writing it off as punishment none of them deserved and forcing them onto work details. And if they weren't working in some farmer's field up to their knees in mud, they were shut up in their leaky-roofed barracks.

Ivan glanced at his watch, praying time jumped ahead five minutes since the last time he checked seconds ago. It was still eight-thirty, the same time it'd been for what seemed like the past hour. Underneath his jacket, the file he'd stolen from Gilbert's safe poked at his side as if to remind him it was still there. He needed to hold out for five more minutes, five painstakingly long minutes without dropping the file, getting in trouble, or both.

" _Achtzehn_ … _Neunzehn_ … _Zwanzig?"_ the sergeant asked himself, startled to find twenty men standing before him. He quietly counted again, before saying, "Are all of you really here? On time?"

"Did anyone teach you Jerries how to count? There's twenty of us that sleep in that barrack, and there's twenty of us here right now," Arthur scoffed, although he was clearly just as confused as the sergeant as to why there were twenty people lined up from Barrack Two.

"Alright, who _isn't_ from Barrack Two?" the sergeant said, looking over the group. "Braginsky?" he called out, Aryan blue eyes searching for the Russian.

"Heidrich, you saw me and nearly passed out, I'm here," Ivan answered, looking at his watch again. Eight-thirty-one. The war would be over before four minutes passed if time kept up at this pace.

"What are you doing, being obedient?" Sergeant Heidrich asked, coming over to Ivan. Naturally, he was suspicious – Ivan hadn't shown up to roll call on time since December 31st of 1939.

Ivan shrugged, kicking at the gravel. "I don't know. I felt like I should be a good kid today."

"You?" Heidrich said with a smile. "You thought you were going to be a good kid? Who are you trying to fool?"

"Absolutely no one."

"Right. Don't think I'm not watching you." Heidrich looked at the list of prisoners in his hand, moving to the second man most likely to act out. "Adnan?"

"You caught me punch Heracles and told me I'd be in solitary if I did it again," Sadik grumbled, looking over at the Greek with fire in his golden eyes. Heracles gave him a sleepy smile, saying something in Greek that no one had to be fluent in to understand. Sadik shot something back equally as vulgar sounding, making Heracles' face go red.

Heidrich rolled his eyes, letting the two continue on with their fight. "Jones?"

"Now, sir, I am personally offended that you would think I would be the one to screw things up," Alfred replied, putting a hand to his chest. "I am never late."

"You were late yesterday," Arthur reminded him.

"I don't need you to remind me, Eyebrows."

Ivan resisted the urge to look at his watch again, keeping himself occupied by drumming his fingers on his leg. All around him, people were shouting – Sadik and Heracles, Arthur and Alfred, and now it seemed Eduard was picking a fight with Raivis. He would've been shouting along with the rest of them, but he was scared to do anything more than breathe. The file wasn't folded up and safe in one of the hidden pockets inside Ivan's jacket, but rather shoved lazily in between his jacket and his shirt. Only now did he recognize how terrible of an idea this truly was, praying that the folder wouldn't slip out.

Despite all his efforts not to, Ivan looked at his watch once more. Eight-thirty-three. Just two more minutes. Two more minutes to still get in trouble, drop the folder and break a promise eighteen years in the making. He'd never wanted time to pass more quickly in his life.

"Shut up!" Heidrich yelled in a sorry attempt to get everyone to stop fighting. This, of course, never worked, but the Germans loved to try. Ivan was the only one who could truly stop them, being the senior POW – but why would he? It was absolutely hilarious to watch the German soldiers realize they had zero control over their own prisoners.

The door of the commandant's office was thrown open, Gilbert marching out looking much, _much_ angrier than usual. Everyone immediately stopped shouting, a few of them daring to glance at Ivan to see if he was panicking yet. They all knew he had the file; he'd asked for help that morning with the transfer.

"Report," Gilbert said in a low, cold voice laced with arsenic. Ivan froze, thinking Gilbert was asking for the report on Roderich, but then remembered it was still roll call.

"All present and accounted for," Heidrich replied.

Gilbert looked over the twenty men before him, expression condescending and cruel. "On time?"

Heidrich nodded.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Gilbert said, walking up and down the first row. Ivan stopped breathing every time the man passed him, terrified the report would slip out from under his jacket right in front of the commandant. "How are all of you on time?" He came to a halt right in front of Ivan, red eyes full of hatred.

"What? I just wanted to be punctual for once," Ivan explained, locking eyes with the commandant. He couldn't do anything out of the ordinary – one little mistake and it could all be over.

"And why would you do that? Don't lie to me, Braginsky. You've done something and you're trying to cover for it."

"I am not trying to cover for anything."

"Where were you last night?" Gilbert growled.

Ivan glanced at his watch a final time – it read eight-thirty-five. In a matter of seconds, he'd hear the rumble of an engine coming down the dirt road to Stalag XVIII-A, he'd slip away from the commandant, and he'd keep up his end of a child's promise.

"Answer me, Braginsky. Or are you too scared?"

"I've never been scared in my life, sir," Ivan replied, even though he was so terrified he could hardly breathe. What was taking the old man so long?

And then he heard his salvation; the roar of an engine that desperately needed to be worked on. Ivan looked over to the fence, smiling at the sight of the blue-grey truck with the peeling paint. A guard walked up to the gates, wrenching them open for the truck. The plan was in its final stage.

"Dog truck!" Alfred shouted, although everyone in Wolfsburg knew exactly where the truck was. Only a broken engine could make such a wretched noise.

"Braginsky! Answer me!" Gilbert snarled, taking a step forward. "Where were you last night?!"

The dog truck drove past the office, coming to a halt at the kennels. The guard dogs barked and howled with delight, knowing they were about to be relieved of duty. Ivan looked from Gilbert to the truck, preparing to run.

"Braginsky!" Gilbert grabbed a fistful of the man's jacket.

The report slipped just enough that Gilbert could see half of a cream coloured folder sticking out of the bottom of Ivan's jacket.

Gilbert grabbed it before Ivan could, holding it far away from the man. If he was angry before, he was livid now. "What is _this?"_ he hissed, turning the folder so he could see the label on the front. "Oh, it's the report Raivis wrote for me? Now, could you explain what you were doing with it?"

Ivan was completely blank. He'd expected everything to run so smoothly that morning that he hadn't come up with any good lie. No, there weren't any lies to use. He broke the promise. There was no way to save himself from this one, no way to –

" _Danke!"_ Toris said, plucking the report from Gilbert's hand. He took off for the truck, the rest of Barrack Two following along as planned.

Six years. That's how long Ivan had known Toris. In six years, he'd learned everything about the man, all the minute details that made up who Toris was. He kept all of his worries to himself, hated talking about Lithuania with such a passion Ivan thought he was almost ashamed to be Lithuanian, remembered things in vivid detail, and could hold a grudge like no one else. Ivan knew of the nightmares and the trust issues and the broken relationships that scarred Toris' personality. Toris Laurinaitis was shy, quiet, intelligent, and above all, submissive.

And as Ivan watched Toris run for the dog truck with the stolen report in hand, he felt like he'd discovered something new about him. A little mystery Toris kept tucked away for six years finally revealed itself – he had a rebellious spirit.

Gilbert – like everyone else – was too startled to do anything. Ivan saw his chance, ripping Gilbert's hand from his jacket and running over to the crowd around the truck. The report was nowhere to be seen; hidden, no doubt. The man who changed out the guard dogs carried on like nothing had happened, dragging out new German shepherds from the depths of the truck and shoving the old ones in.

"Oh, my God, did I really just do that?" Toris said in a weak voice, suddenly appearing at Ivan's side.

"It was perfect, _malyutka!_ You should've seen Gilbert's face!" Ivan couldn't help but smile, pulling the man into a hug. "You were amazing, absolutely amazing!"

In that moment, the gloomy world of Stalag XVIII-A ceased to exist. Ivan was so caught up in the fact that they'd pulled it off, _they'd really pulled it off,_ that he completely forgot Gilbert saw the whole thing. All that mattered to him was that Toris got the report to the contact, and Ivan couldn't be more proud.

Of course, Gilbert Beilschmidt had to ruin everything.

"Laurinaitis!" Gilbert snapped, grabbing Toris by the back of his collar. He pulled him away from Ivan, throwing him to the ground. Toris looked to Ivan for help, begging for a way out that even Ivan, the master of getting out of things, couldn't find. "Solitary. A month. All privileges revoked for two months," he growled, stepping on Toris' chest to keep him pinned to the ground. "And you," he said, turning to Ivan.

"What about me?" Ivan asked with a forced smile.

"I'm fed up with your behavior. I can handle a lot of things, but stealing from my own damn safe?! That's just low, _Ivan._ I only have one word for you," he said, coming over to Ivan. "Gestapo."

"I love the Gestapo," Ivan shot back. "They're not going to get shit out of me and you know it."

"Oh, yes, they will. This isn't going to be one of your routine investigations. I'm sending you to their offices in Vienna, where whoever they choose will have free reign to interrogate you. You better pray it isn't my brother." Gilbert ran a finger across his throat.

"Come on, Commandant," Alfred said, taking a step forward to try and defend the Russian. "It was –"

"Jones, solitary for two days! Does anyone else have anything to add?"

No one dared to say anything else.

"Good. Now," Gilbert said, looking over at the man in charge of the guard dogs, "this truck is not leaving until that report is found."

* * *

"You want him to do _what?"_

"I know you're thinking that I've finally gone absolutely insane," Francis said in the gentlest tone he could muster, trying to keep Basch at least semi-calm. Basch was taking the news much better than he expected, but still not as civilized as most people would've. "But I think we can use Roderich to our advantage."

"By letting him into the Underground? Good God, Francis, why don't we just let the Gestapo join us too? Maybe Himmler would like to be an agent. Roderich's a Nazi, you idiot," Basch snapped, crossing his arms. He'd already made up his mind about Roderich – he absolutely hated him – and had told Francis this several times over the past hour they'd been discussing the man. "Most people I will accept, but I have to draw the line for members somewhere."

"Roderich isn't a Nazi. He's part Jewish, remember? And I'm not saying we use him as one of our most active agents, but for a quick job or two, he'd be wonderful. And best of all, the Gestapo trusts him more than they trust all of us combined. If I plot things out in advance and twist his story perfectly, they can't blame Hitler's favourite musician. He can get away with a lot more than we ever could."

"You're going to have to work twice as hard to cover for him," Basch added, pacing back and forth over the bedroom floor. "And if he does get caught, it won't only be him going to some labour camp. It'll be you and probably me."

"I'm willing to work for him. And besides, I already have everything about him covered. He'll be wonderful, Basch."

Basch sighed, holding his head. "He'll be great until the Gestapo pins him and starts interrogating. He's not good material. From what I've seen and you've told me, he's nervous, he's an alcoholic, and he really doesn't care what happens to himself. That's not the kind of person I need."

"So what if he's a little nervous and a bit of an alcoholic? Aren't we all?" Francis nearly shouted, trying to get Basch to make eye contact with him. He couldn't stand it when Basch would talk to him but keep his eyes focused on something else. It made Francis feel like what he was saying wasn't worth the effort. "This is the chance for him to finally do something worthwhile with his life. Something important. He can finally work for the right side."

"He can find something else."

"Basch, if he keeps going through life doing the same thing every day, he's going to kill himself."

"Oh, so this is about saving him now?" Basch asked, keeping his green eyes focused on the wall. "We're going to let one half-Nazi, half-Jew into our Underground because he might commit suicide? Well, now I've rethought everything. He _deserves_ to be with us. No, he can take my position."

"Will you stop being sarcastic? I thought you'd understand, but obviously, I was wrong," Francis snapped.

"I'm sorry I value my family more than some pathetic drunk. Let's say Roderich does get caught," Basch started, glancing over at Francis for a second before continuing. "Who is the first person he is going to throw in front of the guilt train? You? Me? Maybe even Lilli? I don't want any of us being shipped off to Poland. I don't trust Roderich yet. Give me twenty years or so to warm up to him, and then I'll reconsider."

"I promise he wouldn't do something like that," Francis said, knowing all too well that he couldn't keep a promise like that. Roderich wasn't the most trustworthy person in the world. "Lilli will be safe, and I'll make sure of it."

"How do you know he's not a traitor? How do you know? Oh, wait, you don't. You're going off false assumptions and what little you know about this man," Basch snarled.

"I know nothing about him? Basch, I read his whole damned life story and rewrote the whole thing! I know that man better than he knows himself!"

"People can hide a lot of things from you, Francis. It's not hard," Basch said in a voice so uncharacteristically harsh Francis nearly flinched. He really had his mind set on Roderich not joining.

"I know they can. But believe me," Francis pleaded. "Roderich is no different from any of us. He's not out to please Hitler. All he wants to do is make some sort of difference in Vienna. He wants to be somebody, somebody more than von Wolffe. Someone real."

Basch rolled his eyes. "I used to want to be someone, too. But I got over that. He's older than me, so he should've gotten over it a long time ago. My answer is still no."

"And what makes you think you aren't someone? Good God, your name is all over Gestapo Headquarters! You're the person everyone goes to when they need help, whether it is Underground related or someone like me crying about how their third marriage ended."

"What, are you trying to sugar me up for something?" Basch asked, arching an eyebrow. "You're being strangely nice to me."

"You need someone right now, Basch. I'm trying to be that someone," Francis admitted, looking down at the worn floorboards. "The war's doing a number on all of us, but I think you've been hit the hardest. And if it goes on for three, four more years…I just don't want you to end up like Roderich."

"Is that why you're so concerned about me all of a sudden? I thought you'd found out that I had some terminal disease and had to make up for those years of shoving me in the Seine and giving me a black eye," Basch said, the hostile edge to his words disappearing.

"The black eye was technically not my fault," Francis shot back, looking up to find Basch finally making eye contact. "You gave me a bloody nose first."

"I was eight. You were twelve. I had a right to defend myself. Are you still upset about that?"

Francis felt his face grow red. "Maybe."

"Listen, Francis, I know you have good intentions for literally everything. That's just who you are," Basch said. "And I know you would never intentionally do something to hurt our family. But I don't know if I feel safe letting a stranger into my family. I treat everyone in Vienna's Angels like they are my blood relatives because I've known them forever. I've known Roderich for less than twenty-four hours."

"And what a wonderful less-than-twenty-four-hours it's been. I only want to do this because I think it'll help save you some stress. Please, just give Roderich a chance. You gave me my first chance. And look where I am now."

Basch smiled. "You're begging for a drunkard to be let into the most successful Underground operation in Austria. Haven't gotten much farther, have you?"

"Does that mean yes?" Francis asked hopefully.

"Oh, God, I can't believe I'm going to say this," Basch muttered, shaking his head. "I'm not saying that we're going to let him in right now, but if I become more acquainted with him over, say, the next few months, and find out more about his personality, I will seriously _consider_ allowing him to run a few missions and rendezvous. _Consider_ , not automatically initiate."

"…Are you serious?"

"I would never joke about something as serious as this," Basch answered. "Now, I don't want you to go talk to him about everything, and I don't want you to make him do things that will change my mind. I want to see his real personality, not Francis Bonnefoy's influence."

"Who do you think I am?" Francis asked with a grin. He knew his charm would make Basch loosen up eventually – it always did.

"Francis Bonnefoy, the biggest cheat in all of Europe."

"Not much better than Basch Martin Luther Zwingli, the tiniest and angriest member of the Resistance," Francis said, giving Basch a playful nudge. Basch pushed Francis away from him, storming out of the bedroom.

"Oh, come on, hedgehog, it was only a joke!" Francis called after him, following the furious Swiss out to the kitchen.

"And a piss poor at that!" Basch shot back. "You know I don't like people talking about my height. Hey, have you seen Lilli?"

Francis shook his head. "I didn't leave when we were talking – how could I?"

"Weird, she's usually out here," Basch said to himself, ducking into the tiny adjoining living room. "Lilli?"

"Is she outside?"

"It's raining; she wouldn't be dumb enough to go outside. Where the hell is Roderich?" Basch pushed past Francis, stomping off to the back of the house. "I swear to God, if he is anywhere near that kid…"

Francis sighed, going over to the little window by the back door. Sure enough, Lilli and Roderich were talking, Lilli perched on the swing like a maroon canary and Roderich sprawled out on the grass. Both of them were soaked, but they didn't seem to care. They were smiling, talking back and forth as if they'd been friends for more than a few hours. Roderich said something with a narcissistic look that sent Lilli into hysterics, the girl nearly falling off the swing.

"I'm going to burn that son of a bitch alive," Basch muttered, stomping back into the kitchen. "The hell are you smiling about?"

"Lilli has a new friend." Francis motioned for Basch to join him, tapping the rain-streaked window pane.

Basch stood beside Francis for much longer than he should've gone without saying anything. Francis couldn't tell if he was angry or interested – really, any emotions were hard to tell apart with Basch. Whatever the man was feeling, he watched the two for several minutes, studying their every move. Was he trying to make sure Roderich was really trustworthy with Lilli? Was it part of his test? Was he so mad he couldn't do anything?

Basch was too damn hard to read.

"Basch?" Francis asked, only to be shushed.

"Look at her," he said after a few moments of silence. "I haven't seen her this happy in so long. She's actually laughing."

* * *

"September 23rd," Hochstetter said as he hung up the phone, flashing Ludwig a grin. "We only have to wait two weeks. And all it took was me getting my entire family banned from Berchtesgaden for the rest of our lives. Future members included. Goebbels' secretary doesn't take kindly to calls from strangers."

"You were the one who came up with the bright idea to call Josef Goebbels himself."

"I wasn't expecting his secretary to curse my family for all of eternity!"

Ludwig rolled his eyes – what _did_ Hochstetter expecting out of a call to Berchtesgaden where he demanded information from Goebbels himself?

"Don't act like you're so much smarter than me," Hochstetter huffed, crossing his arms. "It was a good idea when I started."

"At least we got the date. But what if Zwingli decides to do something before then?" Ludwig asked, knowing Basch couldn't go two weeks without vandalizing something. He couldn't go a day without making some kind of trouble.

Hochstetter shrugged, putting his boots up on the edge of his desk. "That's your battle to fight. I just got my ass chewed by some secretary because you didn't want to go up to von Wolffe and ask him."

"I don't want to ask him because I don't want him to get suspicious. And I didn't say you should call Goebbels!" Ludwig could only imagine what would've happened if the secretary had let him talk to Josef Goebbels. Hochstetter certainly wouldn't be showing up to work the next morning.

"So maybe it was a bit stupid," Hochstetter admitted.

"A bit?"

"Fine," Hochstetter groaned. "It was probably the dumbest thing I've done in my life. But we got the date, right?"

"I don't know why I put up with you," Ludwig muttered, grabbing one of the prisoner files the two were supposed to be working on before the ingenious idea to call Berchtesgaden came up. The box was still half full – needless to say, they hadn't gotten much work done together.

"Just a friendly reminder I'm four months older than you, _kriminalinspektor,"_ he said, putting extra emphasis on _kriminalinspektor_ to remind Ludwig that he was beneath him.

"Four months. Four damned months. And it wasn't my fault I had to stay at home for longer than you because my father needed help. If I wouldn't have stayed, I'd be up where you are."

"Who cares about a parent?" Hochstetter scoffed. "I left home the second I could."

Ludwig looked up at Hochstetter, watching the man sign his name on the bottom of a report. "At least I care for my family."

"Family? Who needs –"

Hochstetter was interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for a reply, the _kriminaloberassistent_ marched into the office, carrying a thick folder, a bucket, and looking like he could kill someone as usual.

" _Guten Tag,_ sir," Hochstetter said, looking down at his desk. No one dared to make eye contact with the _kriminaloberassistent_ unless he insisted on it.

"Will you two do something useful for once?" he growled, throwing the folder down on the desk. Roderich von Wolffe was written lazily across the cover in Gilbert's handwriting, the ink smudged – he was probably too impatient to wait for it to dry. He handed the bucket to Ludwig, ice water splashing over the rim and soaking into Ludwig's pants. "We have a prisoner from Wolfsburg here, details are in the folder. He's already driven everyone in the office absolutely insane, so good luck."

The _kriminaloberassistent_ sighed, going back out into the hall. From there he started shouting, a strong yet strangely childish voice shouting back in thickly accented German. Ludwig couldn't understand much of it – the two were yelling over each other – but he caught threats of stabbing, drowning, strangling, several insults pertaining to the two's families, one threat of disembowelment, and there were many, many Slavic insults in the mix.

A young – but _definitely_ not small – man was shoved through the door by the _kriminaloberassistent,_ a few more insults were thrown his way, and the door was slammed shut. The man muttered a few curses in a foreign language, turning back towards the door. Only now could Ludwig see that his hands were tied behind his back, his wrists rubbed raw from struggling. Both of the Gestapo men kept quiet, still trying to figure out what had just happened.

"Hello," the man said after a moment of silence, giving them a little smile. "You are going to interrogate me, yes?"

"My God, you're _huge_ ," Hochstetter gasped before Ludwig could think of anything professional to say.

The man looked down at the floor, face growing red. "Was that meant to be an insult or a compliment?"

"It likely was both," Ludwig answered, snatching up the file they'd been given. He could tell the man wasn't the everyday prisoner, with a report nearly four times as thick as a standard one. But when he saw the name, he completely understood everything.

"Colonel Ivan Leonidovich Braginsky," Ludwig said slowly, looking back up at the Russian before him. "You're the infamous bastard my brother calls me about?"

"Oh, sir, that's not even coming close to half of the things the commandant calls me. Just today he threatened to murder me over ten times in one sentence," Ivan said much too proudly.

"Give me that." Hochstetter snatched the report from Ludwig's hands, flipping through the pages. "You've got an impressive record, kid. Sixteen escape attempts in the past two months? One count of arson? Five of theft? You've been requested for transfer forty-one times. What the hell are you doing in Stalag XVIII-A?"

"It's boring there. We have to find something to do, so I like to do things that make Commandant want to murder me. Did they mention the incident with the letter opener?"

"Letter opener?" Hochstetter skimmed through the list of offenses and descriptions. "Uh, no. Nothing about a letter opener."

"Shame, that was one of my best ones. My barrack played darts with a letter opener and a picture of Hitler," Ivan admitted without one look of regret. Did he feel anything but pride?

"And they want us to interrogate you on account of stealing? They sent you all the way to Vienna because you stole something?" Hochstetter asked, handing the report back over to Ludwig. "This is Vienna, not some little town. We've got better things to do than interrogate people like you. Now, if you would've killed someone, we could talk."

"That's what I told Commandant." Ivan took a seat in front of the desk, looking all too comfortable for someone who'd been sent to Gestapo Headquarters, supposedly multiple times. "And he wouldn't let me go to the Gestapo in Graz because I 'know them too well.'"

"Don't you ever want to not cause trouble?" Ludwig asked.

"I've been causing trouble since I could walk. But I actually didn't cause trouble today. Well, not intentionally. I wasn't expecting the commandant to mess everything up," Ivan muttered, his smile fading into a grimace.

"What did you even do?" Ludwig thumbed through the first few pages of the report, looking for some sort of information on the actual crime. All that was written down was "theft," which could mean anything.

"I stole a file on Roderich von Wolffe."

"For what reason?" Hochstetter sat up straight again, blue eyes gleaming.

Ivan shrugged. "I felt like it. The commandant keeps his safe unguarded, and the locks on the windows don't do shit against me."

"Do you know who Roderich von Wolffe is?" Ludwig asked, trying to remember if Roderich had ever mentioned a Russian man before. A man of his size would be memorable.

"Some Nazi pig, right? Listen, I don't care about whoever the guy is. I'm here to be talked to about stealing."

Hochstetter glanced over at Ludwig, looking to see if they were thinking the same thing. Ludwig nodded, getting up and closing the shades.

"So we're going to be formal now?" Ivan asked, his voice wavering. So he _did_ have more than one emotion.

"Colonel Braginsky," Hochstetter said, the venom in his words so thick that Ivan's name sounded like an insult. "In Vienna, the Gestapo asks the questions. Don't you dare say another word out of line unless you want to find yourself in much more pain than you've ever been. So, let's start with an easy question. How do you know Roderich von Wolffe?"

"I thought you were the nice one," Ivan growled.

"Oh, I am. Ludwig's the one who will break your bones and make you bleed. I'm the one who rips whatever sanity you have to pieces. It's your choice which way you want to go. You can go back to your prison camp perfectly fine, or I can send you back forever broken."

"I already am broken," Ivan replied, still bearing a smirk. "You can't shatter me any more than I already have been."

"Get on your knees," Hochstetter ordered.

Ivan gave him a look that screamed murder, but surprisingly followed orders. Ludwig didn't move for a second – suspects with as strong of a will as Ivan never were so compliant. He was used to slamming people to the ground and pinning them there, and he expected Ivan to be no different. Was it part of some sort of plan to do as he was told?

Ludwig put the bucket of ice water down in front of the man, grabbing a fistful of his blond hair. He was expecting Ivan to lose his arrogance and at least cave a little – but he started laughing.

"Of all the games you want to play with me, a full-blooded Russian, you choose this one?" Ivan asked in between fits of laughter. "Tell you what, I'll humour you and play along."

Ludwig shoved his head underwater, taking a sharp breath as the cold bit at his fingers. And yet, Ivan didn't struggle. He stayed perfectly still.

"What the hell is wrong with this kid?" Hochstetter asked. "I've never seen someone so…"

"Insane?" Ludwig finished, pulling Ivan back up. Ivan shook his head like a dog, still smiling.

"You Germans have a very different definition of cold," Ivan said, his voice much weaker than before but still smug.

"How do you know Roderich von Wolffe?" Hochstetter snarled, coming over to Ivan.

"Like I said – it was there for me to steal," he answered.

Ludwig forced him back underwater.

"You don't have any plans tonight, do you?" Hochstetter asked. "I know you're _so_ busy."

"No. I never have any plans," Ludwig replied, pushing Ivan's head a bit deeper into the bucket.

"How do you feel about an all-nighter with yours truly?"

* * *

Roderich fell back on his couch, too tired to even think of moving. All day Basch had him running guns and parts to people, giving him wrong addresses so Roderich was forced to make several trips just to deliver one pistol. When he finally let Roderich go home at ten, Francis had to go with him. Not only did Francis have to take him home – he was keeping Roderich under house arrest.

As if all of that wasn't enough, Basch told Roderich to show up at his house the next day at eight for _even more_ work. Roderich felt like he could've murdered Basch numerous times that day, but he knew that he owed a lot to the short Swiss and his charming cousin. Who knows where he would be if they hadn't kidnapped him. In jail, at the mercy of a jury who only wanted to see him executed, perhaps even dead.

Still, didn't Basch feel even the slightest bit guilty for making an innocent man run all over Vienna?

Probably not. That man was colder than Siberia in the dead of winter, and he'd made it clear he wanted Roderich to drop dead.

From the kitchen he could hear the phone ring, breaking the silence of the lonely house. He considered getting up but quickly remembered Francis was perfectly able of answering a phone. If someone needed to talk to Roderich so bad, they could wait until morning. Right now, he didn't want to move for another ten years.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Francis called from somewhere in the back of the house, clearly not having the same idea as Roderich.

"I can't bear to move and may very well be dead," Roderich groaned. "Please, can you answer it?"

"Stop exaggerating," Francis huffed as he came into the kitchen, snatching the phone off the wall. "Hello, Herr von Wolffe is being an overdramatic crybaby right now, he can't talk. So you can take your complaints elsewhere and leave that bastard alone. In other words, _piss off."_

Francis didn't say another word for what felt like hours, only starting to talk before being cut off and sent back into silence.

"Who is it?" Roderich asked, hoping Francis didn't just sass the Gestapo.

Francis looked over at Roderich, gesturing for him to come get the phone. "Yes, sir. I am so sorry, I had no idea it was you…Who am I? Oh, I'm a nobody compared to Herr von Wolffe…Sorry, sir, my name is Christian Kleiner. Hold on, I'll get Herr von Wolffe. Um, _Heil Hitler."_ He pulled the phone away from his ear, covering it with his hand. "It's Goebbels. Oh, my God, I just told Goebbels to piss off."

Roderich immediately got up, snatching the phone from Francis' hands. Francis backed away, looking more pleased with himself than terrified like he should be.

"I am so sorry about that, sir," Roderich apologized, knowing he was going to be screamed at. He should've answered the phone himself, but he really wasn't expecting Francis to be so rude.

"Who is that Kleiner man, Roderich?" Goebbels asked. "No, better yet, why is he answering your telephone?"

"He's a family friend, sir. Really, he meant no offense to you. And he's probably a little drunk right now," Roderich explained, earning himself a cold glare from Francis.

"Takes one to know one," Francis hissed quietly.

"Tell your friend he needs to watch himself. Talking like that could certainly get him in plenty of trouble. Now," Goebbels said in a sharp voice that made Roderich flinch, "about your new assignment. I need a swing piece, somewhere between three and four minutes long. Can you handle that?"

"I think so."

"You think?" Roderich could tell Goebbels was smiling at his uncertainty.

"No, I can do it!" Roderich quickly corrected himself. "I promise you, sir. You won't be disappointed."

"I haven't been disappointed with your work yet, I'm sure you'll do fine. You _are_ the prodigy of the Imperial Academy of Music and Preforming Arts. And by the way, do you know a _kriminalkomissionar_ by the name of Hochstetter?"

"I don't think so. Can I ask why, sir?" Roderich looked over at Francis, wondering if he knew anything about Hochstetter. Francis shrugged, mouthing the word "what."

"He called here around twelve, asking when your next performance was. I didn't talk to him personally, but my secretary told me he seemed rather interested in you," Goebbels said. "It seems you have a fan. Anyway, I'm sure you have better things to do than talk to me."

"I could talk to you all night if you wanted, sir."

"What did I say about calling me 'sir?' It's fine to call me by my first name now, I won't get mad," he said in such a way Roderich knew that deep down, he really would get mad.

"Oh, um, right. _Auf…Auf Wiedersehen,_ Josef. _Heil Hitler,"_ Roderich stammered, feeling a bit sick and angry all at the same time.

" _Heil Hitler._ _Auf Wiedersehen."_

Roderich hung the phone back on the hook, slumping against the wall. Talking to anyone from the Nazis' inner circle always made him feel like gagging – they were all sickening people. But calling them by their first names? That was too much.

"You just said Josef, didn't you?" Francis asked with a smile.

"Shut up."

"So, what did _Josef_ have to say to you?" Francis said, drawing out Goebbels' name. "And why did you look at me like that?"

"It's nothing that you need to know," Roderich growled, pushing past Francis to go upstairs. "That bastard Goebbels," he said to himself when he came into his room, grabbing his composition book from where he'd left it on the dresser. "Saying we can call each other by our first names. You don't call the devil Lucifer to his face unless you want to be eternally damned. And who is he to say what I'm going to write? I'm going to write whatever I feel like, _Josef."_

Roderich couldn't stand that name. It felt so wrong when he said it, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. The name should have been cursed, as if anyone who said it would be punished to a lifetime of misery.

He opened the composition book to a clean page, titling it "swing." For a moment he stared at the blank page, trying to find an idea hidden in its lines. He knew what he was supposed to write – a swing piece, of all things, for whatever Nazi jazz band the propaganda ministry scraped together.

"You want swing music, Josef?" Roderich growled, still unable to come up with any idea. "You want me to write for your little Nazi approved band? Well, I'll give you swing music. It'll be the best damn song you've ever heard, even better than the Americans."

He scribbled a quick treble clef and a 4/4, taking a deep breath. Pen poised, he waited for the first few notes to come to mind. And waited. And waited. And waited. Suddenly, Roderich came to a horrible realization.

He knew nothing about swing.

All his life he'd trained to become the next Beethoven, the next Wagner, the next Chopin. And American music never really was his forte – the language barrier was a huge problem. He'd hardly paid any attention when he heard swing. Roderich thought it was the downfall of society, the musicians were only in it for the money and not the art now. Swing was all the same to him, just one never ending song. Only, now that he was being paid good money to write swing, he realized he should've paid slightly more attention.

"Shit," Roderich groaned, putting his head down on his desk. "Oh, God, I don't know a damned thing about any _new_ music. That's just wonderful. Because when one thing starts to go right for me, the whole world has to turn against me!Thank you, world! I just want to have one miserable thing go right in my life, one worthless little thing, and so far all that's happened is I've sold my creative freedom to a monster. Does anything else want to go wrong while I'm at it?"

"What are you doing?" Francis asked, stepping into the room. He came over to Roderich's desk, looking over the catastrophe of papers, books, and other odds and ends that covered the surface.

"You wouldn't happen to know any Americans, would you?" Roderich looked up at Francis. "I need one who knows about swing music."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Not the Nazi approved stuff," Roderich mumbled, wondering where he could find an American in Austria.

"I know everyone in Vienna, and I've never heard of one American here. They might be holding one in Gestapo Headquarters, though. From what I know of Americans, they tend to be troublemakers. If you wanted, I could take you there tomorrow before we go to Basch's," Francis offered. "You know, since you can't leave my sight or else Basch is going to break my legs."

"It's worth a shot."

* * *

"Look what I found in the _kriminaloberassistent's_ desk," Hochstetter announced as he came back into his office, holding up a brown bottle. "Didn't know he was such a drunk, you should've seen half the shit I found. I could've brought the brandy, but I think you're old enough for vodka now. Tonight you'll become a real man, Ludwig."

"Four. Months. I am not a child, at least compared to you," Ludwig said, although he couldn't help smiling. He had no idea what he was in for when he signed up for an all-nighter with Hochstetter – he wasn't expecting raids on everyone's offices and smoking stolen cigars on the roof.

Headquarters wasn't so frightening at night with Hochstetter, as everything with the man was some sort of game. When Ivan passed out and they locked him up, the game began. First, it was a contest to see who could find the most embarrassing thing in someone's desk – Ludwig won with the letters to several different men he'd found in the secretary's desk, none of which were her husband. And then it was a race to get up on the roof. After that they found a deck of cards and started lighting them on fire, throwing the burning aces and queens at the still sleeping Ivan.

"Of course you're not a little boy, dear," Hochstetter said in a falsetto voice, producing two shot glasses from behind his back. "And I'm not the worst Gestapo man that's ever been transferred here."

"You do realize that you just insulted yourself, right?"

Hochstetter sat down beside him, twisting the cap off the bottle. "It's true, isn't it? Berlin was begging for someone else to take me. And now I'm here with you." He poured a shot for each of them, nudging a glass towards Ludwig. "I am the wild child of this group. And the only fun one to be around, might I add. You all need to learn how to have fun in this here Gestapo Headquarters."

"The Gestapo _can't_ be described as fun," Ludwig corrected him.

"Whatever, kid. To the end of this damned war," Hochstetter said, lifting up his shot glass.

"To the end of the war, and Basch Zwingli."

Ludwig didn't want to tell Hochstetter that this was his first time ever drinking vodka – it would only reinforce Hochstetter's already solid superiority complex. To keep Hochstetter from making any more age comments, he quickly downed the shot and immediately regretted it. No one told him how awful vodka was or that it _burned._ It was easily the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted, forcing him into a coughing fit.

"Don't you dare tell me this was your first time drinking straight vodka," Hochstetter said with a smirk as he poured himself another shot. "Or your first time ever drinking," he added before throwing back the shot.

"No, this isn't. And it's not my fault you've got a Slav's taste," Ludwig managed to say in between coughs.

"Oh, so this is my fault you're so young and so uncultured to the world of alcohol?" Hochstetter asked. "Don't worry, kid, the more you drink, the less it hurts. It can be a really good friend when you want it to be, and a bitch when you don't. And I would share more, but one of us has to stay sober to deal with Ivan."

Ludwig glanced at his watch, realizing it was already almost three. Had it already been five hours since the last man went home? "We only have a few minutes until three, you drunk. If Ivan comes in here and there's vodka out, who knows what he'll do."

"Shit, it's already that late? And we were just starting to have fun, too," Hochstetter huffed, hiding the bottle and shot glasses in his desk drawer. "Do you want to do the honours of bringing him here?"

"Honours? You just don't want to get your lazy ass up, so you're going to make me do all the work."

"Exactly. Now, go get my prisoner," Hochstetter ordered, motioning for Ludwig to leave.

"Some _kriminalkomissionar_ you are," Ludwig said over his shoulder as he left.

"Better than a lowly _kriminalinspektor!_ Move, peasant! _"_

Ludwig rolled his eyes, going off down the dark hallway towards Ivan's cell. Thankfully he could see Ivan's shape on the floor – he'd almost expected some grand escape attempt from the Russian, nothing left but his scarf or something of the sorts. A strange disappointment tugged at his heart as he unlocked the door and slipped inside, like he really wanted an escape. It was probably the vodka talking.

He nudged Ivan a few times with his boot before kneeling down beside him, taking a fistful of the Russian's still damp shirt. The man still seemed to be unconscious, but Ivan was liable to put him in a chokehold at any second. Ludwig held up a fist, preparing himself for the fight he knew was going to follow.

"I didn't mean it," Ivan muttered, turning away from Ludwig. "Yah…know I'd never."

"What sort of game are you trying to play with me," Ludwig snarled, pulling Ivan back so he could see the man's face.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it. I never…wanted this." Ivan's eyebrows curved up in concern, looking like he could cry.

"You have two seconds before I punch you."

"Please…Basch. I don't want to hurt anyone. Not…or Roderich."

Ludwig dropped Ivan, wondering if he'd heard him right. He was tired, he could've imagined it. But he couldn't help but think he could use this to his advantage – Ivan obviously knew something about Basch, something he wanted to hide from the world. He wasn't as useless to the case as he seemed.

"What the hell is taking you so long?" Hochstetter called out, appearing at the cell door from seemingly nowhere. His boot tapped impatiently against the floor, arms folded over his "It isn't that hard to wake someone up, is it?"

 _"Shh!"_ Ludwig hissed. "He just said something about Basch and Roderich."

Hochstetter clapped a hand over his mouth, blue eyes going wide. He was smiling yet again when he pulled his hand back and tiptoed into the cell, giving Ludwig an approving nudge.

"I don't want…" Ivan's worry faded away, replaced by a contempt smile. "Basch, lovers haf'ta fight sometimes."

"Does he mean Basch's girlfriend or did we just walk into a secret romance?" Hochstetter whispered, leaning in closer so as to not miss a word.

"Don't you 'member that mad night in…Innsbruck? You, me, th' Grand Europa. That was the best night of my life. Don't y' love me like that anymore?"

"I think we've found something to use against Basch," Ludwig replied. He felt rather guilty and ashamed of himself, as he'd intruded on a very private part of two very different men's lives – a part they'd obviously worked hard to hide. It all seemed so wrong. Ivan didn't look like the type for any romantic relationship, and Basch didn't have a heart to love with.

"Hold me like yah did," Ivan said in a rather suggestive voice, his grin growing as he put his arms around Ludwig's waist. "Tell me evr'ythin', let me pin yah to the bed, scream…scream my name, _kiss me._ Kiss me just like you did that night."

"Can I please wake him up now?" Ludwig begged, praying Ivan wasn't going to get any more physical.

"I don't know, I think you should kiss," Hochstetter replied quietly. "You two are cute together."

"Really?" Ivan asked, looking over at Hochstetter. "I thought I overdid it a little bit with the kiss. And by the way, what does that Basch guy have to do with Roderich? Better yet, who is Basch?"

"You're awake?" Hochstetter snarled, giving Ivan a kick in the ribs.

"Ow, shit, what was that for? All I was doing was having fun!"

"You mean you were lying that whole time?" Ludwig growled. He was thankful for the darkness of the cell – his face was burning with shame. How could he have been so gullible, believing Basch and Ivan were in some twisted relationship? Ivan didn't even know who the man was.

"Of course. Listen, I know we've only known each other for a short time, but you've got to understand that I am the biggest liar currently in Austria." Ivan flashed a smug grin, pushing Ludwig closer to murder. "There's only one rule for being a suspect – never let the Gestapo catch you asleep. You should know that by now. So, what are you going to do to me? I'm dying to know."

Hochstetter didn't say anything as he pulled Ivan to his feet, but his eyes said it all. He was furious, ready to kill a certain Russian. During interrogations, Hochstetter always remained semi-calm no matter who he was talking to. Ludwig hadn't ever seen Hochstetter snap – and it certainly wasn't going to be pretty. At the same time, maybe that was what they needed to crack Ivan.

"No one shows up until six, Braginsky," Hochstetter said in a monotone voice as he dragged Ivan back to his office, Ludwig following close behind. "That's three hours for Ludwig and myself to do whatever we want to you. Here in Vienna, if the _kriminaloberassistent_ didn't see it, it didn't happen. For now, we don't have to follow _any_ interrogation rules."

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, dear, a lot happened this week. The biggest thing was probably** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **and I turning this story into a script. Dear Lord, that's been a trip.**

 **History time:**

 **Berchtesgaden: A municipality in the Bavarian Alps, near the border of Austria. Adolf Hitler began vacationing there in the 1920's, and bought land in the Obersalzburg above the town. It became the vacation place for the Nazis during the 20's and 30's, and when the war started it was reinforced with security posts and support services.**

 **Nazi Swing Band: Swing music was beginning its reign over the music industry in the early 1900's. However, because of the African American influences in the jazz/swing style, the Nazis weren't fond of the style, even outlawing it in 1935. Several underground bands sprung up in Berlin, avoiding being caught by pasting pro-German music over their own. For a while they stayed underground, until Josef Goebbels realized that he could use big band music to his advantage. He put together a band called Charlie and his Orchestra, and they made over 90 recordings that they distributed to POW camps.**

 **Thank you to** EllaAwkward **,** FlamingFyre **(is this the one from Numbers? If so, hi! You're back!)** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** Chizu5645 **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **! You guys are awesome for putting up with my rambling!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	9. Forza

"Roderich?" Francis pushed open the door to the master bedroom, going over to the man slumped over the desk. He was surrounded by papers, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. For the first time in years, he looked peaceful, without a worry in the world. "You are asleep, right? Don't try and scare me, I have a bad heart."

When Roderich didn't reply, Francis took it as a sign he was asleep. He picked up one of the papers on his desk, this one not covered in music, but with a simple list that looked to have been written in a maximum of ten seconds. The letters were snarled together, some words underlined several times and written in all capitals.

 _"People I hate,"_ Francis read aloud in a quiet voice. " _Adolf Hitler, Josef Goebbels"_ – that one was underlined three times and in capitals – " _Basch Zwingli, Gilbert Beilschmidt, Vati, maybe Ludwig Beilschmidt, Roderich Edelstein."_

Beneath the list was a second, much smaller one. " _People I love,"_ was the title of this one. _"Elizabeta Héderváry,"_ was the only thing listed. Her name looked so heartbroken on the paper, each letter conveying the pains and regrets of a broken marriage.

Seeing as that list was much too depressing, he traded it for another paper with both music and writing on it. Individual measures were scattered on the page, some crossed out, others circled like they might be promising. But the writing was what caught Francis' eye.

" _You're the biggest fraud in history,"_ Roderich had written to himself. _"A Jew with Hitler sounds like a bad joke. Why would you ever think for one moment that this really could've worked? At some point they're going to catch up to you, they're going to find someone who'll talk. At least you've lived for that one tiny moment of glory, but at what cost? You should've stayed a nobody, ran off before the Nazis could find you. It's easy to disappear when you're nobody. Nobodies don't have broken marriages and alcohol problems. And they definitely aren't working for Hitler._

 _"God, I hate you more than I hate Goebbels."_

Francis put the paper back on the desk, not knowing how to feel about anything. Surely Roderich didn't despise himself that much – he was probably stressed out from everything that had happened in the past few days. He'd be back to normal in a day or so, maybe sooner.

 _Who am I even trying to lie to?_

Ever since he met the scrawny nineteen-year-old music student in 1933, Francis was fully aware that he'd done the wrong thing for him. But Roderich wanted to stay in the academy so badly, he pleaded and fought for hours with Francis. For weeks he begged, trying to convince him to come up with some plan that allowed him to stay in Vienna and continue his studies. Francis knew in his heart Roderich couldn't stay, not with the Final Solution looming in the distance.

But he made the mistake of caving. How could he not? Roderich was a bright young man with an even brighter future, and who knows where he would've ended up if Francis sent him to Switzerland.

Probably married, happy, and not a drunk. He would've found some way to continue his music, even if it wasn't his official job.

 _I ruined him,_ Francis said to himself. _I should've been more assertive, should've told him no, should've sent him anywhere but here! But I wasn't expecting Hitler to find him! I wasn't expecting the Nazis to take Roderich into their ranks! Everything could've been fine if it wasn't for the war, if it wasn't for Elizabeta, if it wasn't for me!_

Francis looked down at the man he'd spent so many hours creating without realizing he'd been destroying, a whole new anger building deep inside of him. All he'd wanted was to make Roderich happy – and instead, he made _this,_ whatever it was.

Roderich started to stir, opening a sleepy lavender eye. He glanced up at Francis, expression going from half-asleep to irritated with one look.

"What do you want?" Roderich asked in a rough voice, turning away from the Frenchman.

"I have to go out on a rendezvous for some papers," Francis said as he put a hand on the man's shoulder to show he meant no harm. "And I saw that your lights were on, so I thought you might want to come with me. But I can see that you're sleeping –"

"What time is it?"

"Around five."

Roderich sat up, rubbing his eyes. "The last time I remember was two-something. Ja, I'll come, I got the three hours of sleep the world's going to give me."

"Hey, if you seriously haven't slept, I'm not forcing you to go," Francis said, watching Roderich pull a shirt and pants from his closet. "Don't overwork yourself."

"Overwork? I've gone days without sleep before." He pulled on his shirt, stifling a yawn. "This is nothing. I was up for four days straight once. Nearly fell asleep while talking to Hitler."

"Seriously, Roderich, it isn't good for you. You need to sleep."

"That's the wrong mentality. You see, you have to tell yourself that sleep is only a want and that you can make it through anything. Or so I've been telling myself, but it doesn't work as well as I'd like." Roderich fumbled with his tie, seemingly forgetting how knots worked.

"Please stop pushing yourself and go to bed," Francis ordered in the sternest voice he could muster at five in the morning.

"I'm fine," Roderich shot back. "Everything is fine."

"Everything is _not_ fine."

Roderich looked over at Francis, giving him a weak smile. "When did you get so rough? And I know everything isn't fine. We're in the middle of the war that wasn't ever supposed to happen, remember? You're running an illegal underground business and I'm playing with the devil. I lost my wife, I'm an alcoholic, and I'd kill for one night's rest again. I'm not even doing what I love anymore. So, ja, everything is not fine, but I'm going on the rendezvous."

"We can solve only one of those problems," Francis said gently. "You stay here and sleep, and I'll take care of the papers."

Roderich stood for a moment with his mouth open, trying to think of a comeback. He put his tie back on the dresser in defeat, knowing he'd walked into an argument he couldn't win. With a sigh he snatched up his comforter from a heap of clothes on the floor, spreading the dark red blanket out over his rarely used bed before curling up underneath it.

"You can't be so hard on yourself, dear." Francis thought back to the letter Roderich wrote, remembering the cruel words he'd told himself. He had no idea Roderich was that mad with himself.

"Easy for you to say."

"You've got to look for the bright side," Francis added, knowing there was no such thing as a bright side anymore. "I know the world looks hopelessly bleak right now, but you've got to put at least a little faith in yourself."

"Why should I? You know I'm doomed to fail, Francis. We can't keep up this façade forever, especially not with Hitler. And now I've gone and made all this trouble for you and Basch and Mathias and Lukas and everyone else I've run into. Maybe I should just disappear," Roderich muttered, pulling the blanket over his head.

"You're being overdramatic again."

"Oh, heavens no, not being overdramatic!" Roderich groaned, his words stifled by the blankets. "Because being overdramatic is _so_ much worse than being a Jew who's constantly in the Nazis' presence! I could die at any given second, and you're concerned about me being overdramatic? I…I want it to be over. I want everything to disappear, and I can go back to being myself."

"The war will be over soon," Francis said, sitting down at the foot of the bed.

"That's what you said at the beginning, _'it's going to be over soon'_. That's what you said during _Kristallnacht._ That's what you said when I met you! Is it ever going to end, Francis? Is it ever going to _end?_ There isn't going to be a happy ending for me like you've dreamed of! I'm going to get shipped off to a ghetto and hanged! _"_

Francis didn't know how to respond. Roderich was right – he'd always been told that everything would be over soon and life would go back to normal, and it wasn't looking that way. How much longer could they hold out before something slipped through the system and there was a loaded gun pointed at both of their heads? That unknown ending was slowly choking their optimism, its uncertainties and what-ifs preying on their every move.

"Everything has to come to an end at some point. And I promise you that your ending will not be because of the Nazis. We are all going to make it through this war, alive," Francis said.

"Your positivity is killing me right now," Roderich growled, pulling the blanket back to glare at Francis. "Can't you be pessimistic for once?"

"I'll be pessimistic when you lighten up a bit."

Roderich gave him a tired smile. "I don't understand you. You have the worst job in Vienna, you can't find a woman that'll stay married to you for more than two weeks, you have to put up with Basch and me, and you're still so damn happy. God, I kind of feel like a bad person now. I complain to you about everything, and I've never heard you say anything about your troubles."

"Don't feel bad about it," Francis said, reaching over and ruffling Roderich's hair. "I don't have a lot to say about myself. _Adieu,_ Roderich. I'll see you in a few hours."

"If you ever want to tell me something, you can. I mean, I rarely sleep. You can call me at three in the morning if you want, I'll probably be awake or drunk."

"If I ever find something I want to tell you, I will."

 _I want to tell you how sorry I am, I really do, but I can't find the words to use._

 _There are no words._

Francis left the room with all of his guilt weighing down on his shoulders, knowing he'd pushed Roderich to be the distrustful disaster he was. It made him want to give up on everything, to take his family and Roderich to Switzerland and leave the life they'd lived in Vienna in the past. And while it was the ideal escape, he knew he couldn't give up yet. There were still so many families in need of his help, so many more Roderichs who knew the world was against them and needed a way out.

Such is the way of a conman.

* * *

"Do you think you could kill someone?"

"What sort of sick question is that?"

Toris couldn't see Alfred, but he knew the American had to be grinning. He always was. "It's only a question. If it comes down to it, can you kill someone? Or better yet, have you killed someone?"

"Are all Americans as demented as you are?" Toris asked, leaning back against the cold wall. Colonel Beilschmidt wasn't feeling generous this time around, leaving Toris with no means to protect himself from the freezing temperatures of the cell. For one hellish night, he'd shivered with his jacket pulled tight over his chest, falling in and out of sleep and answering Alfred's constant questions.

"Only runaway dreamer pilots who get shot down on their first real mission," Alfred answered proudly. "That and criminals. I worked in a jail in Chicago for a month or two, and those guys were absolutely insane. So, can you and have you killed someone?"

"Yes, I have killed someone, but not someone I knew. I was defending Russia. And no, I don't think I could ever kill someone again," Toris said, pulling his knees closer to his chest. He could almost smell the gunpowder in the air, feel the weight of the rifle in his hands, hear the last cries of so many. There was no way in hell he'd ever force himself through that again, not even for triple the bare salary the Soviets gave him.

"You always talk about Russia like it isn't your homeland. See, if I was talking about America, I'd be much more proud than you are with Russia. It's my country, you know?"

"There's nothing to be proud about with Russia. For God's sake, Stalin's killing more Russians than Hitler is! If FDR was murdering your neighbours in the night and taking them away to the gulags, would you be proud?" Toris clenched his hands into fists, willing himself not to completely snap on Alfred. He was a stupid American pilot with too big of dreams, too naïve to know about anything that didn't pertain to him.

"…Are you serious? Shit, Toris, I had no idea. Sorry for bringing it up," Alfred apologized, although he didn't sound sincere, more resenting than anything.

Toris sighed, cursing himself for raising his voice. The only thing that ever happened when he spoke out was trouble. "No, it's fine. If you want to keep asking me questions, I don't mind. Really, it's keeping me from going insane."

"Oh, uh, okay. So, um…How'd you get into the army?"

"As a loyal Russian citizen, I'm supposed to tell you I volunteered," Toris replied. "But truthfully, I got mixed up with the wrong people. If a Russian man ever comes to your town saying he can get you out of trouble, don't listen. Send him right back to whatever Russian hell city he came from."

"You have a pretty big grudge against Russia, don't you?" Alfred laughed a bit, oblivious to the severity of Toris' situation.

"It's more than a grudge."

"You honestly don't strike me as the type to be so angry," Alfred said, drumming his fingers on the wall that separated the two. "You're so calm and collected and nothing like someone who'd ever be mad. And then I talk to you, and it's like you want to burn down all of Russia and punch a few Nazis while you're at it."

"That's the impression you're getting?" Toris smiled to himself, wishing he had Alfred's child-like thoughts. His parents used to tell him that he had the mind of a sad old man by the time he was four, never once having a happy thought or idea.

"No, it's just from the way you talk. You're too damn nice to do anything like that," Alfred muttered. "You're the perfect kid."

"That was a compliment, right? Thank you?"

"I have no idea if it was a compliment. Hey, can I ask you something kind of personal?"

Toris already knew where this was going, but he still answered. "I guess."

"Okay, before I ask, I am totally not judging you. But, are you and Ivan…romantically involved or something? I mean, you guys are always together and sometimes you sleep together and he calls you cute nicknames and stuff," Alfred said in one rush, the words slurring into one. But Toris didn't even need to hear the question to know what was going to be asked – it was the first thing anyone asked him once they saw him with Ivan.

"Ivan is a very manipulative person," Toris replied. "He's good at using people in such a way that they don't realize it. When he wants something, he _wants it._ Nothing will stop him from getting whatever he's set his mind on, no matter what lengths he has to go to. And unfortunately, I happened to be something he wanted to this extent. Somehow, he devised this whole sick plan that ended up with me owing my life to him. I, being the naïve person I was, fell for it all."

Toris took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep calm. "At first, it was almost a friendship, but not quite. And he started to grow more and more possessive of me, taking over little details he could control until it got to the point where he was telling me I couldn't leave my house alone. I think what it boils down to was that he was scared of losing me. He'd finally made a friend, and he never wanted me to leave. Not that I could've, anyway.

"But then we got separated when we went into the army. He was sent to Poland, and I was kept in Intelligence and Special Operations for a while. Then I got captured, sent here, and there was Ivan. He's definitely calmed down since when we were in Russia, but his affection for me is getting increasingly romantic. And I'm too afraid to tell him that I don't love him in that way, so I'm putting up with it for now. So, to answer your question; no, I do not love him, but I believe he loves me."

"God, that's bullshit," Alfred growled, the hate for Ivan in his voice just as evident as in Toris'. The two had never gotten along, save for when they were causing trouble. "Is there any way you could tell him to stop?"

"I told him no only once. He told me I was signing up for the army with him and didn't have a choice, and I told him to stop forcing me into things. And you can probably guess what ended up happening."

"I know you're not going to take this seriously since it's coming from me, but truthfully, I am sorry. I can't even think of someone owning me like Ivan owns you," Alfred said. "You're a good guy, Toris. You don't deserve half the stuff Ivan does to you."

"You're the first person to ever have sympathy for me," Toris said with a hint of a grin. No one ever felt bad for him – in fact, everyone he'd told about Ivan was on Ivan's side.

"Guess Americans aren't as demented as you thought, huh?"

"No, they're not."

"Do you have any questions for me?" Alfred asked. "I feel like I've talked too much."

"You want me to ask you something? I'll try, but I certainly won't have any good questions. So...um, what do you miss the most about America?" Toris said, rather uncertain of his words. He'd never been too good at holding a conversation, especially asking questions.

"Definitely the music," Alfred replied. "That and being able to speak English. But the music is wonderful in America, absolutely wonderful. I lived in Kansas City for a year or so, and you wouldn't believe all the music they had there. You had your jazz bands in the inner city, some fancy stuff I never could get into up in the rich districts, there was always music playing in the Balkan section, and the Germans and Poles had their polkas. You couldn't go anywhere without hearing music. I miss it."

"Does that mean you regret leaving, or…?"

"Yeah, I do regret it. I was being dumb, thinking I could go be a hero. And look at me now, locked up and talking German to some Russian guy in an Austrian prisoner-of-war camp. If this is what being a hero is like, I don't think I'm cut out for it." Alfred's cheer from earlier was gone, disappearing to wherever Toris' faith in humanity was.

"I don't think any of us are cut out for it," Toris said. "Every one of us was being dumb. We all made stupid mistakes; how else would we be here? You probably weren't as –"

"Toris!" a little voice chirped from outside, two clumsy feet running down the stairs leading into the cells used for solitary confinement. "Good morning, Toris! I got on breakfast duty!"

"Why are you so happy about that?" Toris asked, going over to the steel door. There was a rusty sounding _click_ as the lock was twisted open, the door's hinges squeaking as it was pulled open. Raivis rushed forward, putting his thin arms around Toris' waist.

"I missed you," he said in a hushed voice, looking up at Toris. "It's scary without you in the barrack."

"I can imagine. But it's probably a bit quieter without Colonel or Alfred." He ruffled Raivis' curls, flashing him a weary smile. Of all the people he'd met during his stint in the military, Raivis was the only one worth getting in trouble and quite possibly dying for.

"It's too quiet. Well, until Sadik called Heracles something. And then they started screaming, but I got Heracles to stop. He's getting much better at understanding 'halt'."

"Kid, we don't have all day to do this," the guard said with a roll of his eyes.

"Sorry!" Raivis pulled something from a little bag on his side, putting two slices of black bread in Toris' hands. "Commandant must be really mad at you," he said in a quiet voice, gesturing to the pathetic excuse of a ration. "I'll try talking to him today if that'll make a difference."

"Don't get in trouble for me, I'll be fine. It's Alfred you're going to have to worry about," Toris added.

"Rude!" Alfred shot back. "I'm not used to starving like you are, okay?"

Toris shook his head, looking down at Raivis. "Be a good kid while I'm not there to watch you. Don't let Eduard boss you around."

"I won't. I'm still teaching Heracles the alphabet, he keeps calling 'a's' alphas or something. But we'll get there eventually, I'm sure!" he said, blue eyes gleaming. "Hopefully before the war's over."

"Galante," the guard growled, shifting his weight from one leg to the other impatiently.

"Coming!" Raivis gave Toris another hug, slipping something into the man's pocket. "Don't starve," he mumbled as he walked out of the cell. Toris put his hand in his pocket, smiling as his fingers ran over the earthy skin of a potato.

"You little thief!" he called after the boy, showing a rare smile to make sure Raivis knew he wasn't mad.

"What can I do?" Raivis asked with a shrug. "I'm only fourteen, I don't know any better!"

* * *

Roderich stood on the back step with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, fingers curled around a warm cup of black coffee. The sun was barely up over the horizon, swathing Vienna in gold. Vienna was a different place in the morning, much better than its counterpart. Everything was silent in the morning, save for the lone bark of a dog and a few engines. Humankind stopped existing at six a.m. on a Thursday, leaving the city quiet and Roderich's thoughts melancholy.

 _Elizabeta sat with me that first morning,_ he said to himself, clenching the cup as the memory came back to mind. _We watched the sunrise together. She talked about the life she wanted to have in Vienna, about children and work and all those miserably wonderful things that come with being married. Everything was going to be perfect, she said._

 _Why did she come to me looking for perfection?_

 _Out of the people to go to for a perfect life, I'm certainly not the best choice. Still, we were happy. What changed? I don't remember any huge fights, and there weren't any traumatic events. In fact, I would say everything was going_ right _for a change. What's there to hate about that?_

Roderich took a sip of his coffee, a bitter reminder to dig his ration card out of the pile of papers on his desk and buy sugar again. _Maybe it was for the best, though,_ he told himself in a sad attempt at consoling his broken heart. _Now if I get caught for something, she has a strong colonel to protect her and won't get dragged to prison with me. And she's happy now, or at least I think she's happy. Whatever she is, I don't wish any ill will on her._

 _Maybe a little._

 _What am I saying? I still haven't forgiven her. I haven't forgiven myself, and I never will. I'm a horrible person and proud of it!_

 _Francis was right, wasn't he? I'm too hard on myself. But I am a rather easy target – and it's much easier to insult yourself than compliment yourself. Perhaps I should try to find that mythical "bright side."_

 _So…I'm still alive? Is that a positive thing?_ Roderich asked himself as he took another sip of the much too dark coffee. _No, I have to think like Francis thinks. I'm lucky enough to have my talents, I have a wonderfully paying job, albeit a bit despicable, I've met every Nazi high official and haven't been shot. I'm not locked up in Gestapo Headquarters, I have a Gestapo man who's obviously taken quite a liking to me, I wasn't killed or arrested during_ Kristallnacht _, Elizabeta's still keeping my religion a secret, I had a good marriage, and I've got a lovable bastard like Francis to keep me safe._

 _Well, shit, when you put it that way, I don't have it bad at all. I guess there still is a dim bright side, even in the middle of a war. Francis knows what he's talking about for once._

Roderich smiled, pulling his blanket closer. It'd been a long time since he thought even vaguely positive – and it felt oddly satisfying.

"Roderich?" Francis called out as he slammed the front door closed. He heard the Frenchman go upstairs, coming right back downstairs. "I know you're not in bed, so stop hiding! I want to talk to you!"

 _Strange, Francis sounded almost upset. Did something happen on his rendezvous? Surely he's mad at me for not going back to bed. I had work to do; I couldn't lay in bed feeling bad about my life._

"I wasn't hiding," Roderich said as he went back inside, going into the living room to find Francis on his couch, holding an off-white folder.

"Right." Francis shook his head, seemingly disappointed with Roderich's honest answer. "So, you'll never guess who I found out is in Gestapo Headquarters."

"What?"

"No, not what, Roderich, _who."_

"Basch?" Roderich said, secretly wishing the short hell-spawn was locked up.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Don't go for the obvious answer. Think way, way outside of the box."

"Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

"A bit closer," Francis said. "But still no. It's a man you haven't heard from in a long time."

"My father?" Roderich couldn't help but smile at the thought of his father at the mercy of someone like Ludwig. When Francis shook his head, Roderich had no choice but to say, "I give up."

"Colonel Ivan Leonidovich Braginsky."

Roderich looked up, wondering if he'd heard Francis right. "What the hell is he doing in Vienna? No, what the hell is he doing alive? You mean Ivan Braginsky is actually _here,_ in Gestapo Headquarters?"

"I wouldn't lie to you about something like this. And yes, he's still alive, and he's in Vienna to be interrogated, obviously," Francis explained. "I haven't seen him myself, but my informant told me about Ivan. Supposedly, Ivan stole this folder." He handed the folder to Roderich without saying anything, letting the writing on the front tell the story. The small happiness Roderich found that morning died almost instantly when he saw the name.

 _"Stalag XVIII-A, Wolfsburg,"_ was stamped in the upper corner, and beneath it was, " _Commandant Gilbert H. Beilschmidt."_

But that was only the beginning. Right in the middle, in smudged ink were the words, " _Roderich von Wolffe."_

"I didn't know what I was expecting," Francis said, taking the folder back and flipping through the pages. "I was only told it was a file on you. But this, this seems more like he's plotted out every detail on you. It's a little worrying, no?"

"How did he even get all of that?" Roderich asked, too fazed to come up with a better question. He knew Gilbert was borderline insane, however, this was pushing it.

"Public records, perhaps his brother in the Gestapo. Wherever he's getting it, it's things I've fixed. There's nothing there that could lead to the truth." Francis stopped on a page, skimming over the paragraphs detailing Roderich's life. "I couldn't find anything worthwhile, although, a page did seem to be torn out. Hopefully, it wasn't anything actually useful," he added. "Not that they could find anything after what I've done to your story, seeing as I am flawless."

"Narcissist," Roderich muttered.

"I'm only self-confid…" Francis' voice trailed off midsentence, his joking smile gone. " _Qu'ai-je fait de mal? Oh, Seigneur, qu'est-ce que je manque? Il connaÎt votre nome."_

"Francis, you're speaking French again. What's wrong?" Roderich asked, looking over at the page Francis was so concerned about. He pointed to four letters, not even a whole name, written in the margin.

 _Edel._

"Someone told," Francis said so quietly Roderich thought he imagined it. "Someone gave away the first part of your name."

"It can't be that bad, can it? They don't have all of my name."

"Roderich, any detail, no matter how small, is bad. That's something a madman like Colonel Beilschmidt can build off of. But don't worry about it," he added hastily. "This never made it to the public, so only Colonel Beilschmidt and whoever told knows about it. I'll talk to Ivan later and find out, he's good at silencing people. Everything will be absolutely fine."

Francis pulled a lighter from his pocket, setting the corner of the folder on fire before tossing it into the fireplace. "Everything will be fine, I promise," he said in the same voice Roderich used when lying. "I won't let anything like this happen again."

"It isn't the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes, and it's not like he knows my entire life story. You're already doing too much for me, don't burden yourself with more," Roderich said, watching the last of the folder burn. "I'm not worth the effort."

"Unfortunately, you are."

"Please, not one person would care if I died."

Francis looked over at Roderich, tired blue eyes full of an emotion Roderich didn't think he was capable of – regret. "I would. Ivan would. There are two people."

"Only two people, though. And one of them may be dead long before I die. How is Ivan? Better yet, how did you find him?" Roderich asked, memories of the wild little boy he'd grown up with coming back to mind. The last he'd heard of the man was that the Soviet Union, Finland, Romania, and Poland wanted him dead.

"I found almost everyone connected to you back in '33. Ivan was definitely one of the hardest, being a wanted criminal nearly everywhere. Actually, I only learned of where he was recently – Stalag XVIII-A. I wrote a few coded letters to him, and he told me that he was keeping his promise and would do whatever he could to help. That included stealing the folder," Francis said. "I'd been a bit wary to tell you for a while, seeing as you might want to talk to him again."

"And what's wrong with me talking to someone I considered my brother for most of my life?"

"You might forget something and slip up, and I didn't want anyone to get suspicious."

"Well, could I at least have his address?" he asked, hoping there was some way he could fix the long severed relationship. Criminals and music prodigies didn't tend to mix well – they'd lost all contact by the time Roderich was fifteen.

"Sorry, I don't want any chances of mistakes. And besides, if we're going to Gestapo Headquarters before Basch's house, you'll see him anyways. But you have to act like you've totally forgotten about him," Francis said before Roderich could ask. "We can't risk another accident like this one."

"Just when I was really beginning to like you, you have to go be a jackass," Roderich snapped. "Hell, I even thought positively for you! I haven't seen my brother in twenty-something years, and you tell me I can't even talk to him?"

"I'm not saying that you can't talk to him, you have to act like he's a total stranger. Hey, maybe he knows an American you can talk to."

* * *

"Are you ready to answer my questions again?" Hochstetter asked. The man standing in the far corner of the room looked up, his one violet eye that wasn't swollen shut looking from Hochstetter to Ludwig confusedly.

"Well, are you? Because I can leave you there for longer."

Ivan nodded eagerly.

"And you promise to handle things like an adult?" Ludwig added, glancing at the teeth marks on his hand. He'd dealt with plenty of convicts, but not one of them had ever bit him. And then again, most of them weren't total madmen like Ivan.

Once again, Ivan nodded, although Ludwig had a suspicion he was lying.

"Bring him back over here, I have a new idea," Hochstetter ordered – of course he wouldn't want to do it himself; Ivan was liable to bite him, too.

Ludwig went over to Ivan, dragging him over to the chair in front of the desk. A trail of bloody footprints followed behind, little pieces of glass making them glisten. Hochstetter was going to have to clean that up – it was his "ingenious" idea to make Ivan stand on broken glass. Reluctantly, Ludwig undid the gag, stepping back immediately.

"Are you ready to play games with me again?" Ivan asked in a hoarse voice, trying to wipe his bloody nose with his shoulder.

"Ludwig's done for now," Hochstetter said. "I want to talk to you about something that doesn't even have to do with Roderich or Basch. And all I want you to do is answer. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're getting much better about lying. Maybe some of my talent rubbed off on you." Ivan gave Hochstetter a grin, showing off the empty space where a tooth once was, said tooth being somewhere on the floor of the office.

Ludwig reached for the whip, but Hochstetter grabbed him by the wrist. "No, we're not going to intimidate him," he said, motioning for Ludwig to sit down. "You stay out of this."

Ludwig fell back in his chair, feeling like he'd been cheated. Hochstetter wasn't going to get anywhere with words – they'd tried several times before. Then again, violence didn't seem to be much of an answer either. Ivan was still the same arrogant man he was when he arrived the day before with fewer fingernails, more broken bones, and plenty of blood spilled.

"You used to be a conman, ja?" Hochstetter asked, leaning up against his desk. "You were big in Russia?"

"I did what I had to do to survive. If that meant cheating people, I was going to cheat people."

"I don't have a problem with that. And your business was making people believe they could buy their way out of the gulags?"

Ivan shrugged. Where was Hochstetter trying to go with this?

"Around five years ago, you go to a little town in Lithuania. You had no reason to go, there wasn't any money to be found. It wasn't worth your time. So," Hochstetter said, "why did you go?"

"I don't know. I needed a break, and no one knew about me there. No one was going to arrest me or interrogate me for hours like you two," Ivan explained.

"You met a boy there, barely seventeen. He worked on a farm with his parents and a good friend. You took an interest in this young man, didn't you?"

"He was nice to me. No one had ever been nice to me. We are good friends, and that's it."

Hochstetter got up, keeping a blank face. "Did you feel something _more_ than friendship?"

"No. Toris is only a friend," Ivan shot back, his face bright red.

"Then why would you go to such lengths to stay with him?"

"I've been alone for most of my life. You wouldn't understand how horrible it feels to be by yourself from the time you were ten. I got attached to Toris because he was the first one to care about me. It was and is strictly on non-romantic terms," Ivan growled.

"You were in _love."_ Hochstetter laughed as he poked Ivan in the chest. "And you know it. You know how you feel for that man. But at the time, you didn't know how to deal with those feelings. So you set up a twisted plan. You framed that poor boy's parents, set them up to make it look like they had plans to kill Stalin. They didn't even know who Stalin was, let alone want to kill him. But you had to have Toris all to yourself, so you got them taken away to the gulags."

"Lies. I made up nothing – his parents were part of a resistance movement to kill Stalin. Sooner or later someone was going to find out. You can't hide something like that forever. I happened to be there at the wrong time."

"You said you were going to protect him. But the only things you've done so far is tear him from his family and make him into your little toy. Who knows what you've done to him that isn't recorded." Hochstetter grabbed Ivan's jaw, looking the man over. "What exactly have you done in private? What sort of sinful things have you forced upon a once innocent boy?" He tilted Ivan's head to the side as if examining him. "Have you kissed?"

"I'd rather drown than kiss a man," Ivan spat, glaring daggers at Hochstetter.

"Slept in the same bed?"

"Again, I'd rather drown."

Hochstetter smiled, leaning in close to Ivan. "Of course, I get it now. How could I think that way? You're a bold man, you'd go right for sex without even trusting Toris. Was it worth it, Ivan? Was that handful of pleasure worth the suffering you've caused Toris, who would've had a normal life if it hadn't been for you? Was it even good? Did he beg for more? Better yet, have you done the boy more than once?"

"I thought Hitler was repulsive, but obviously, the lower ones are the sicker ones," Ivan snarled. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to rip Hochstetter apart, and he would've if his hands weren't tied behind his back. "And I could be saying the same for you and Ludwig. You two look awfully close."

"This is about you, not me. So, tell me, was it good or not? He is only a boy, after all, inexperienced in these matters. I bet Toris was scared at first, having someone of your strength on top of him."

"That's absolutely disgusting that you can even think of that."

"And don't tell me you haven't. Perhaps Toris had a girlfriend, someone he intended to get married to. Shame his first had to be a bear like you," Hochstetter said with a mock pout.

"I have done nothing to Toris. He is the same damned person as he was when I met him."

"Did he enjoy it, Ivan? Or did you have him gagged and bound so he couldn't escape you? Did you even ask permission? I imagine it was rough, seeing as you are quite a brute. Oh, dear, I hope you didn't hurt the boy. He is rather fragile, you know. A man like you could do quite a number on him."

"You are the most revolting person I've ever met," Ivan growled. "How sick to you have to be to even come up with something like that?"

Hochstetter paused for a moment. "Can you even imagine what his parents would think, finding out their dear son slept with a gay, sex crazed demon? I know I'd be ashamed. But you don't seem to have shame at all – no, you'd be proud of yourself. You keep Toris like a trophy."

Ivan looked down at the floor, refusing to say anything back to the man. Ludwig had to admit that he was impressed – this was the first time they'd ever gotten silence as an answer from Ivan.

"Have you no shame?" Hochstetter said, trying to get Ivan to make eye contact. "Have you no shame at all?"

Ivan didn't say anything.

"Don't you feel some sort of remorse or guilt? You forced a guiltless kid into a relationship he never wanted. He was perfectly fine until you came and ruined everything. Without you, he'd still be with his parents, untainted by your sinful hands."

Ivan glanced up for only a second, face completely void of the arrogance he'd carried himself so proudly with. He looked empty without the pride, an abused shell of a man. The fragile threads that held a person together were so close to snapping in him, so painfully close.

"How do you live with yourself?" Hochstetter whispered, running a finger along the Russian's jawline. "How do you sleep at night, knowing what you've done? How can you face Toris after everything? Do you even have a heart?"

Still no response.

"You're not answering my questions. That's one sure sign of a liar," Hochstetter said in a sing-song voice.

"What do I have to lie about?" Ivan asked, all emotion gone from his words. "I have done none of those horrible things you've accused me of, and I know it. For once in my life, I am not lying."

"Just admit to everything; the plans, the relationship, the clearly quieted sex life. That's what I want out of you."

"I've never done anyone in my life. Is this what you're wanting, for me to shame myself?" Ivan looked up at Hochstetter. "Yes, I am still a virgin at almost twenty-six. I'm afraid of spiders. I still cry myself to sleep almost every night and have endless nightmares. I have a problem with alcohol. I'm deathly scared of losing the few people I have. I've tried to end my life on numerous occasions. I am nothing more than a lowly liar. You can't shame me any more than I've already shamed myself."

"That's not what I'm looking for," Hochstetter said.

"Then what is it? What sick things do I have to say to you so I can go back to whatever life I have left?" Ivan asked, almost showing a hint of desperation.

"You know what I want, Ivan. All you need to do is say 'I had sex with Toris Laurinaitis and _I loved every minute of it_.'"

"I may have been a liar for most of my life, but I refuse to lie about that."

Hochstetter laughed, tracing a finger down his scarred neck. "Maybe you really are telling the truth. How could I know? We need someone I know isn't a liar. So, who could we find that _does_ know you?" He paused, pretending to think. "Your parents are dead."

"Stop," Ivan muttered.

"Your sisters wouldn't remember anything."

"I said, stop."

"You have control over everyone in the camp."

"Lies."

"Oh, wait, I got it," Hochstetter said. "We could go get Toris! He'd tell us everything about you, every one of those explicit details in a heartbeat!"

Ivan turned to Hochstetter, mouth curled into a snarl. _"Don't you dare lay your filthy hands on him."_

"I _will,"_ Hochstetter shot back. "I will rip your little lover to pieces. And you will wish that you never messed with me."

"Don't do a thing to Toris. He wasn't part of this," Ivan ordered, trying to sound harsh when he was about to fall to pieces.

"Ludwig, call your brother," Hochstetter ordered.

Ludwig grabbed the phone from Hochstetter's desk, holding it up to his ear.

"Hello, number please," the operator said.

"Connect me to Stalag XVIII-A. Now." Ludwig glanced over at Ivan, a bit startled to find him looking on the verge of worry.

"One moment, please."

"Do you hear that?" Hochstetter asked, putting a hand on Ivan's shoulder. "In a moment, Ludwig's going to have Toris sent to us. And this time, we can murder him. No one cares about a littler farmer boy from Lithuania, well, except you."

"This better be good, Ludwig," Gilbert growled from the other end of the line.

"You have a man named Toris at your camp, correct?" Ludwig asked.

"Don't," Ivan said in an unfittingly shaky voice.

"Does this got somethin' to do with Ivan?" Gilbert asked with a yawn.

"Ja. We need you to send Toris up to Vienna."

"Don't!" Ivan yelled, sounding on the edge of crying.

There was a long pause from Gilbert. "Oh, my God, you broke him, didn't you?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You honestly broke him."

"Of course we did. So you'll be sending up Toris today?" Ludwig said.

"Damn, why didn't I think of that? You got the good brains of the family, Luddy! Ja, I'll put him on a train at eight. Oh, God, that is going to be so good! I wish I could see him now."

"So he'll be here by, say, noon?" Ludwig asked, looking back over at Ivan. A few stray tears were sliding down the side of his face, his head hung in shame.

"Ja, maybe sooner. What do you even want to do to him?" Gilbert said.

"We're planning on killing him," Ludwig replied, twisting the cord of the phone around his finger. "Start with some simple torture and work our way –"

The strings inside Ivan snapped.

 _"I'll talk!"_ Ivan shouted at the top of his lungs, unable to look up at Ludwig. "Leave Toris alone, you swine!"

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you don't mind this was a bit shorter chapter than the last couple. I'm honestly trying my best here.**

 **History Notes:**

 _ **Kristallnacht –**_ **Literally "crystal night" in German, alluding to the broken glass that covered the streets after windows had been smashed. On November 9** **th** **, 1938, an attack on Jews was arranged by the SA paramilitary (the Nazis' paramilitary, responsible for protecting the Nazi rallies) and German civilians. Jewish homes, hospitals, schools, businesses, and synagogues were ransacked and burned. Of the 1,000 estimated synagogues burned down, 95 of those were in Vienna. At the time, the fatalities were said to be only 91, but by adding in the post-arrest abuse and suicides, the numbers become much higher. 30,000 Jewish people were arrested that night and send to concentration camps. Kristallnacht is considered the starting point of the Final Solution.**

 **The Final Solution: referring to the plan conceived by the Nazis to eradicate all Jewish people. The policy was formed on January 20, 1942 at the Wannsee Conference. There's not much more to be said about it.**

 **Gulag: A word commonly used to refer to the Soviet forced labour camps, but is actually the name of the** _ **government agency**_ **in charge of the camps. The first camps were created in 1918, and they housed convicts, be them political prisoners or someone who made a joke about the Soviet Union/Stalin (yes, even these were punishable. Imagine how many Americans would be in jail if America ran on this system). Between 1929 and 1953, 14 million people were sent to the gulags. They were forced to do mundane tasks such as digging trenches as a form of "reeducation." Many, many people starved to death because of the low rations. If you want a more in-depth, firsthand account of the gulags, I recommend** _ **One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.**_

 **Translations, for those of you who are wondering:**

 _ **Qu'ai-je fait de mal? Oh, Seigneur, qu'est-ce que je manque? Il connaÎt votre nome –**_ **What did I do wrong? Oh, Lord, what did I miss? He knows your name.**

 **Big thank you's to** EllaAwkward **,** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** FlamingFyre **,** seenlee93 **,** Vegtam the Wanderer **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	10. Impetuoso

_"Guten Morgen, Fraulein,"_ Francis said as he stepped inside, turning on his French charm at the sight of the petite blonde behind the front desk. "My, don't you look wonderful today?"

Roderich forced himself not to say anything. Less than a minute ago, Francis was going off on a rant about how he'd never, not in a million years, even if he was paid, date another woman. Who was he trying to fool? Everyone knew about the long list of ex-lovers, the six divorces, and his talent for flirting. Francis could talk all he wanted about how women were the root of all evil, but in the end, he'd go right back to trying to find himself another girlfriend.

" _Danke_ , sir. What can I do for you?" the secretary asked, shrugging off Francis' compliment like it was nothing.

Francis lost his smile for a moment, a bit disappointed he hadn't made yet another woman fall at his feet. "You are holding a man here by the name of Ivan Braginsky, ja?"

"Yes, sir. And what do you want with him?"

"May we speak with him? It'll only take a minute," he said. "Unless, you would want me to take longer."

The secretary stole a glance at Roderich, who couldn't offer more than a shrug. Francis was going to be Francis, and unfortunately, some people had to put up with him more than others. "I'm sorry, but he's in the middle of an interrogation right now. You'll have to come back at a later time," she answered, twisting her ring in a vain attempt at stopping Francis.

"It's one question," Francis added, oblivious to the not-so-subtle hints the woman was trying to give him. Sometimes, Roderich couldn't tell if he was clueless or plain stupid. "Surely we can ask a question and leave."

"Not to be rude, sir, but you know nothing about interrogations. They cannot be interrupted, no matter how important of a question you have."

Francis pulled a folded Reichsmark from his pocket, slipping it into the front pocket of the woman's blouse. Roderich couldn't see exactly how much it was; from the look on her face, it wasn't pocket change. "Couldn't you please let us ask a little question? I'm sure they wouldn't mind, especially if it came from a doll like you," he purred, putting a finger under the woman's chin.

"Does the word 'no' mean nothing to you?" she asked as she pushed Francis' hand away, handing the Reichsmark back to him. "I'm afraid I can't accept your bribes. They are in the middle of a questioning, and you are simply going to have to wait."

"Francis, may I speak now?" Roderich stepped in front of the Frenchman, smiling at Francis' defeat. Someone needed to knock him off his romantic pedestal and destroy his ego once in a while. "Please excuse my friend, he's not right in the head," he continued, earning himself a cold glare from Francis. "And I know you're trying to do your job; however, you have to let us speak to Ivan."

"No means no. I can't interrupt an interrogation."

"I have four words for you, dear," Roderich said, going right to his final resort without bothering to mellow things out for the woman. "I work for Hitler. He wouldn't be pleased to find out someone was interfering with his work. Now, would you like to deny my orders again or do you want to let me see the man?"

The secretary looked up at Roderich, about to fire something back at him before fully understanding the four words. She silenced her comment, her whole demeanor changing with a sentence. Now she bore a friendly smile, taking the two back to the office where Ivan was being interrogated and even playing along with Francis' advances.

Roderich always found it hilarious how the words "work for" and "Hitler" combined in a sentence could make so many people change their opinions of him. Before he mentioned being in the Führer's presence nearly every week, most people wouldn't have given him a second glance. To Vienna, to Austria, to most of the Thousand Year Reich, Roderich was another face in the crowd, very rarely recognized for who he was. This meant they treated him like any other man; that is, until they learned about his job. And then everyone adored him and wanted to talk to him, acting like he was some sort of film star instead of a composer.

Four words can change so many people's minds.

"Wait here until I come get you," the secretary said, gently knocking on the office door. Before she could say anything, the door was thrown open and a man in Gestapo uniform held up a folder triumphantly.

"We broke Ivan!" the man cheered, waving the folder in the secretary's face. "We shattered him into a thousand pieces, Sofia! No one's ever made him talk before," he added in a normal voice. "We are the first people to ever get him to talk. And you know what's the best part? He doesn't know shit about anything we wanted! We wasted a whole day trying to get him to talk, and all we found out is that he has a dark past and a talent for memorizing things!"

"Could you be any less professional?" The secretary muttered, turning back to Francis and Roderich. "This is _Kriminalkomissionar_ Hochstetter, one of the men in charge of investigating Colonel Braginsky. Please excuse his childish behaviours, he's not used to having guests."

 _Hochstetter? As in the man who Goebbels said was asking about me?_ Roderich asked himself. _What the hell does he want with me? Is he part of Gilbert's "Crush Roderich" team? Knowing my luck, he's already got some mastermind plan against me. And then again, he looks a bit…dumb. How did he ever become a_ kriminalkomissionar? _Must've cheated on the test._

"We have guests?" Hochstetter asked, oblivious to the two men standing right beside the secretary.

" _Guten Tag,"_ Francis said. Only then did Hochstetter notice them, his face going pink.

"Oh, God, sorry," Hochstetter apologized, giving them a sheepish grin. "I had no idea you were here. Albert Hochstetter, nice to…" he faltered, blue eyes studying Roderich. "You, you're that musician, von Wolffe?"

"Um, yes, I am Roderich von Wolffe. And this is my…friend, Christian Kleiner," he added, motioning to Francis.

"Why the pause?" Francis arched an eyebrow in question.

"I really don't know if you qualify as a friend," Roderich said, turning back to Hochstetter. "Anyway, we've come to speak with a man you're holding, Colonel Braginsky. Would you care if we asked a few questions?"

"Oh, my God, this is perfect. Hey, Luddy, get out here! We have company!" Hochstetter called over his shoulder, ignoring Roderich's question.

"Tell the company they can burn in hell for all I care."

Roderich's breathing hitched, his mind going back to the incident with the streaks on his coat. That was the voice that made him paranoid, the voice he'd expect a soulless Gestapo man to have. No matter how friendly of terms they were on, Ludwig was still part of the police force and was clever enough to destroy him.

"I know you're tired, but do you know who I've got out here?" Hochstetter asked.

"Adolf Hitler?"

"Close. Roderich von Wolffe and Christian Kleiner."

There was a sharp squeak of a chair on wood floor, a warning muttered, and Ludwig Beilschmidt was standing in the doorway, tie undone and bangs down in front of his Aryan blue eyes.

"I am so sorry, I had no idea it was you, Herr von Wolffe," he stammered. "It's been a long night and I'm tired, and I wasn't thinking you'd be here."

"I can see that. So, may we speak with this Colonel Braginsky?" Roderich asked, trying his best to keep the fear out of his voice. He couldn't help it – there was something about Ludwig that felt so wrong.

"You want to speak with Ivan?" Ludwig almost smiled for a moment. "Sure you can. He was talking about you a while ago. Maybe you can catch up."

Roderich felt his heart stop – what did Ivan have to say about him? He knew more than Elizabeta did about Roderich's less-than-perfect past; too much for Roderich's liking. All Ivan had to do to destroy everything was say a sentence. Four damned words, the polar opposite of what Roderich used to get what he wanted.

" _Roderich is a Jew."_

 _It could be the end for me,_ Roderich said to himself, trying to regain his composure before speaking. Francis gave Roderich a nudge, reminding him to stick with the "amnesia" plan. _Right,_ Roderich continued, _I've got to pretend I've never met the man._ _Ludwig may know everything, however, I can't let him get to me first. For now, I'm going to go along with it and hope to God I can talk my way out of things._

"Why would he be talking about me?" Roderich asked. "I've never met him in my life."

Roderich waited for one of the two Gestapo men to say something, to accuse him and tell him he was going to die. Ludwig pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration painted on his face with bright red.

"You say you haven't met him? But he was…" Ludwig looked back into the office, snarling a few curses at Ivan.

"Oh, great, he's lying again?" Hochstetter groaned, motioning for Roderich and Francis to follow him. "Come on, Ivan, I thought we went over this! Don't make me call Colonel Beilschmidt!"

Roderich had never been in a Gestapo man's office, so he wasn't quite sure what to expect. At first glance, it seemed like a normal office, with a big desk and plenty of paperwork, the picture of Adolf Hitler hung at the required height, a filing cabinet in the corner, and a bookshelf with about five books and several piles of wallets, jewelry, and watches. When he looked a bit closer, Roderich realized there was a whip on the desk, a pile of broken glass in the corner with bloody footprints leading out of it, deep scratches in the wood floor, dents in the walls, and of course, Ivan.

"Stop moping and answer these men's questions," Hochstetter snapped as he walked by, slapping Ivan on the back of the head.

Ivan glanced up at the two. Roderich held back a smile, reminding himself that Ivan was a stranger. Even though Ivan was bruised and bleeding, he was still Roderich's brother of sorts. It was close to impossible to meet his eyes and keep a straight face; he wanted to tell him everything and hear about Ivan's adventures as a wanted criminal so badly it hurt.

"Look at you, Roderich," Ivan said, his voice low and sad. "You're all grown up now."

"I'm sorry, but have we met before? I'd certainly remember someone like _you_." Roderich spoke in the most condescending tone he could force out of himself. He had to act like the Nazi aristocrat he wasn't, disgusted by anyone who didn't have German blood in their veins.

"What?"

"Have we met before? I don't meet many Slavs here in Vienna."

Ivan didn't reply for a moment, studying Roderich carefully. He looked to Francis for an answer, realizing what was going on. "You don't remember your own brother?" he asked, his voice showing the struggle to follow along with the game. Both of them wanted to talk to each other like siblings, not enemies. "I was with you until you were ten."

"Perhaps my mind has chosen not to remember whatever you call yourself. Where are you even from? Poland? Russia? Some lowly Slavic country, no doubt."

"And I see you've adjusted to Hitler's invasion quite well," Ivan added. "Just like I said yesterday – you're a Nazi pig."

"A rather rich pig at that. I'm working for the Führer, so I advise you to keep your jokes to a minimum," Roderich said, going over to the man. "Now, tell me, you _Untermensch,_ do you know any Americans?"

"Americans? What does Hitler want with an American? Wait, don't tell me," Ivan scoffed. "He actually thinks he can get America to join him?"

"That isn't an answer. Do you know any Americans?"

"I'm not going to tell you shit," Ivan said, folding his arms over his chest. Roderich almost flinched at the scars covering his arms, scars that weren't there before.

"Answer the man or I'll call Gilbert again," Ludwig growled, putting his hand on the phone.

"Fine, I'll talk." Ivan seemed to be almost scared now, watching Ludwig instead of Roderich. "I know one. Alfred Jones, a prisoner at Stalag XVIII-A. Not that he'd want to talk to a Nazi like you. You used to be good, Roderich. What happened?" He smiled, revealing a break in the perfect line of his teeth – did Ludwig or Hochstetter do that?

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. Now, Ivan, _vy raneny?"_ Roderich asked, his tone softening.

It was the tiny Russian Roderich could remember – most was lost in his childhood. But he distinctly remembered the words for "are you hurt?" They were the two words Roderich would ask Ivan when the boy woke up crying, when he came back from the shop with his hands covering his neck, when he showed up at the back door with a black eye.

Ivan's smirk faded away. " _Da. Ochen', ochen' bol'no. Razbityy."_

Roderich couldn't understand anything more than "da"; it was enough to tell him something was very wrong. Ivan's answer had always been a quick _nyet,_ followed by silence.

"Good," Roderich growled, wishing he could say so much more. "I hope you stay that way."

* * *

Basch wasn't feeling sympathetic that morning. Even though Francis and Roderich had tried their best, they somehow managed to show up twenty minutes late. And no matter how many times they apologized, Basch still looked like he wanted to kill both of them.

"I gave you simple instructions," Basch said. "Show up at my house by eight. It is eight-twenty. I don't care what sort of half-assed excuses you've made up for me, because I'm not going to listen to them. I expect you to be on time tomorrow, Roderich. Or else…" He looked over at Francis, flashing a grin. " _Je vais devoir le tuer."_

Francis rolled his eyes. _"Arrêtez d'être un tel enfant. Il était seulement vingt minutes, qui ne va pas te tuer."_

 _"Je ne veux pas un homme qui est pas ponctuel, fin de l'histoire."_

"I'm presuming you speak French as well?" Roderich asked Basch, cursing himself for never learning the language. He never thought it would be useful – then again, he never thought he'd be an alcoholic. This war was full of surprises.

"Italian and Romansch, too. And let me remind you that in my house, you speak when spoken to," Basch snapped.

"I am a grown man – I refuse to let you treat me like a child. I will speak whenever the hell I feel it's necessary."

"Oh, you think you're _so_ much bigger than me. I highly doubt you're as mature as you've made yourself out to be," Basch said, pulling a loop of keys from his pocket. He handed them to Roderich, looking like he wanted to punch the man but couldn't. "Those are the keys to my house, the shop, and Francis' office. Lose them and you're dead."

"And why would you be trusting me with these when you don't even know me?" Roderich asked, looking over the three keys. At the base of each one was a tiny letter – H for house, S for shop, and O for office. He thought Basch was a disorganized sort of person, strangely enough, he appeared to be quite organized.

"I need to know I can trust you if I ever have to use you for something," Basch answered. "I'm giving you what we call in the adult world 'responsibility.' I know you don't have a lot of that, being Hitler's pet and all."

"I am not his 'pet,'" Roderich corrected, remembering why he hated Basch.

"Keep telling yourself that and it might come true. So, I'm trusting that you won't steal anything. It's the first step in a long process of me considering you as an acquaintance and not an enemy. And if I do find out that something has gone missing, Hitler's going to have a funeral to attend to. If he even would come to yours," Basch added.

"What do your passive-aggressive comments have to do with anything?"

"I'm giving you the truth. The truth hurts, von Wolffe. Lilli has all your instructions, don't you dare touch her, and I'll be back by four. She'll be watching you in place of myself, and don't think that she'll let you get away with things. And she may or may not have a gun on her, good luck figuring out. Lilli!" he called. The girl appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, finishing braiding one of her pigtails.

" _Guten Morgen,"_ she said in a shy voice, coming over to her brother's side. Instead of her usual dress, she was wearing beat-up overalls and a white t-shirt. Something was wrong about her – and not just the fact that she was in boy's clothing.

"Wait, it's Thursday, isn't it?" Roderich asked. "Shouldn't Lilli be in school?"

"Oh, no, Herr von Wolffe, I'm sick," Lilli replied without a hint of guilt in her voice. Wasn't she too good for that?

"If someone comes looking for her, you are to give them that response," Basch said. "As far as Vienna is concerned, Lilli Zwingli is sick. If they ask who you are, say you're watching her for me and that's it. If you have to be rude, fine by me. And if Ludwig comes over looking for me, give him directions to the Russian front."

"I take it you two aren't on good terms?"

Basch's smirk slipped into a frown. "And I take it Ludwig has you wrapped around his finger? Listen, I know you're trying to be a good Jewish Nazi, but Ludwig is manipulative. He doesn't care about anything except for work. I suggest you stay as far away from him as you can."

"I can take care of myself," Roderich said, hoping Basch wasn't right. If Ludwig really was oh-so-manipulative, how much did he get out of Ivan?

"Right. _Auf Wiedersehen,_ Lilli," Basch said, giving the girl a hug. So he _did_ have a compassionate side. "You can be as bad as you want today, whatever you have to do to make Roderich mad."

"Don't listen to him. You be good for Roderich, he's under a lot of stress." Francis ruffled the girl's hair, kissing her on the forehead.

"I'll be the best I can," Lilli assured them. " _Auf Wiedersehen!"_

"Hey, Roderich, if I'm not back by four, go ahead and go by yourself. I may have to work late tonight, depending on how much I get done," Francis said. "You'll be fine, right?"

"If he doesn't kill me the second I arrive."

"Where the hell are you two going?" Basch asked.

"Exactly where you said." Francis gave Roderich a worn-out smile, following Basch out the door. "We're going to hell tonight. Or Roderich's going to brave it all by himself."

"You can stay there, for all I care," Basch muttered, glaring at Roderich one last time for good measures. And then he slammed the door, leaving Roderich and Lilli alone.

"Herr von Wolffe? You're not actually going to hell, are you?" Lilli asked, looking up at Roderich.

"It's a figure of speech. I'm not going to be eternally damned or anything like that," he replied. "And you can call me Roderich."

Lilli shook her head. "It feels impolite. So, where is hell?"

"In a town called Wolfsburg, otherwise known as the sole place in Austria with a real American. Anyway, what sort of torture has Basch planned for me today?"

"The first thing is to fix the broken railings on the porch. I can help you if you want," Lilli offered.

"Aren't you supposed to be sick?"

The girl shrugged, leading Roderich outside. She motioned to a pile of planks and nails, grabbing a hammer from the bench against the wall. "No one I know lives around here. If anyone sees me, you can lie, right?"

"I'm not the best liar in the world, but I can try," Roderich said, going over to the ruined railing. He could tell Basch had broken them – things didn't naturally snap in at an almost perfect angle. The real question was if he broke them out of anger or intentionally smashed them so Roderich would have more work.

Roderich never really was one for physical labour; he almost always found a way out of it. Fixing the railings was more of Roderich attempting to do something, Lilli laughing, Roderich getting embarrassed, and Lilli fixing his mistakes. His rails were crooked, while Lilli's were perfectly vertical. He was ashamed having a young girl correct him, and then he remembered he could be working under Basch's supervision. At least Lilli wasn't threatening to murder him every five seconds.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Lilli said in a quiet voice, keeping her focus on the plank.

"How personal?"

"I've heard Basch talking, and he hasn't told me yet, but you…are you really Jewish?" Lilli glanced over at Roderich, trying to see if he was angry. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"What, I don't look like a Jew to you? Is my nose too small? I don't have a beard? I'm not out for the ruin of mankind?" Roderich laughed half-heartedly, making the girl smile.

"No. You seem…not Jewish? I guess what I'm trying to say is that you don't seem any different than the rest of us."

"There's the thing – I'm not different. Sure, meeting Hitler is different, but outwardly, I'm the same as everyone else. My religion doesn't separate me from any other man in Vienna. It's a shame some people try to tear us apart with little details like different religions. They try to make Jewish people out to be villains, however, not every single one of them is evil. Some people are inherently bad, no matter what their race. There's plenty of evil Germans and Catholics, why single Jewish people out? In the end, we're all going to die, so why make such a fuss about religion or sexuality or skin colour now? It's not worth the effort."

Lilli kept quiet for a moment; Roderich hoped he hadn't said too much again. He tended to go off on tangents, especially when talking about sensitive things. "You're really smart, Herr von Wolffe," she said with a smile. "I wish my brother was as bright as you."

"I'm terribly sorry you have to put up with him every day." Roderich sighed, feeling genuinely sorry for the sweet girl. She deserved much better than Basch.

"He's not so bad when you get to know him," Lilli added. "He's a special kind of person. It takes him a long time to warm up to people. It's worth staying with him, though, because he will protect you at any costs. It might take him a while longer to warm up to you, but I'm sure he'll like you eventually."

"Ja, when I'm dead."

"Hey, can you say anything in Yiddish?" Lilli asked, taking the hammer from Roderich's hands to fix yet another crooked plank.

"It's been a long time since I spoke it, and I never really was any good at it," Roderich admitted.

"I don't mind. I can't understand it, so you could say something wrong and I wouldn't know."

Roderich thought back to the countless hours he'd spent learning the language, trying to come up with something. He'd abandoned Yiddish years ago, long before he abandoned his last name. Only a few prayers came to mind, ones he'd said thousands of times. " _May mir zen der tog ven mlkhmh aun bladshed ufhern ven a groys shlum vet arumnemen di gantse velt,"_ he said in a soft voice.

"See, it wasn't that bad." Lilli flashed him a grin. "Do you know what any of that means?"

" _May we see the day when war and bloodshed cease, when a great peace will embrace the whole world_ ," Roderich translated. "There's a lot more to the prayer; like I said, I was a bad kid and never paid attention, so most of it is completely lost."

"That's perfect," Lilli whispered, Roderich not sure if she was talking about the Yiddish or the railings. "…Are you scared, Herr von Wolffe? Of being found out?"

"I am. Who isn't scared of the future? The thing is, I'm not afraid of dying. If they kill me when they find out I'm not a von Wolffe but an Edelstein, so be it. Death isn't the monster we've all made it out to be. What terrifies me is the thought that they'd keep me alive."

"You're scared of living?"

"Shouldn't we all be? At least death is certain," Roderich said. "You're either dead or you're not. There's no in between. And when you're alive, nothing is for sure. One minute everything's fine, the next…"

"It's all over," Lilli finished.

"You're a clever girl, Lilli."

* * *

It was hard being alone.

Ludwig tried to tell himself that he was strong; he would be fine all by himself. Time and again he repeated those words to himself when he left his native Baden; once he was in Vienna, everything would fall back into order. Surely, being alone couldn't be that bad. It would be nice to have some quiet, he told himself. Then when he came home to an empty house every night, he realized how much he needed someone. He missed having someone waiting for him, someone to talk to and laugh with.

A long time ago, he used to have someone. Of course, that someone had to go join the war effort, make his parents proud and all that. He forgot about his younger brother, leaving him to fend for himself.

They'd been together through everything, Gilbert and Ludwig. Through their mother's death, Gilbert's motorcycle wreck that nearly killed him, their father's slow slip into insanity, they'd always had each other. They were the one constant in the other's life, the one thing that would never change. Without Gilbert, Ludwig didn't know what to do with himself.

He tried to be happy for his brother, Ludwig really tried. And on the outside, he was. Gilbert was finally successful, he had a wife, he wasn't getting into bar fights every Saturday. What wasn't there to be happy about? But inside, Ludwig felt angry, jealous, hurt, and above all, empty. Life without Gilbert was dull, leaving Ludwig with no reason to want to get up in the morning other than knowing he had to go to work and take care of his dog.

Were work and his dog the lone things he was living for? Ludwig would've liked to think he had something else in his life – if only that wasn't a lie. There was nothing left for him in Vienna, save for the Gestapo. His whole life was focused on crime now. That and digging up old papers for Gilbert, which wasn't exactly exciting.

These were the thoughts that attacked Ludwig as he sat on his front porch, too exhausted to fall asleep. He wanted to sleep so badly, and yet, his body refused it.

"It isn't fair, Berlitz," Ludwig said, stroking the German shepherd's white fur. "Gilbert gets all the fun. And what do I get? Criminals and headaches."

Berlitz whined, putting his head in Ludwig's lap. He looked up at his master with his cloudy eyes, lowering his ears.

"Sometimes, it's hard to find the motivation to keep going. After you're gone, I don't know what's going to get me up in the morning. If investigation keeps going at this pace, I can tell you I certainly won't want to go to work. Do you know what I had to do last night? I practically beat a man to death. Although, this man is some sort of anomaly that doesn't feel pain," Ludwig added, thinking back to all the things he'd done to Ivan. He could still hear the man's fingers snap – Ivan didn't cry out. He laughed.

"Do you think I'm going straight to Hell?" Ludwig asked Berlitz. "I know I'm bad, but is what I'm doing really that awful compared to what they're doing in Leningrad? We've all got a little bit of evil in us, surely it isn't just me. As a matter of fact, I'm one of the better ones at the office.

"It's tough to be 'good' now. What even is good anymore? What I'm doing is wrong, what the Russians are doing is wrong, what everyone else is doing is wrong. Don't tell anyone," he said, lowering his voice, "but I sometimes I wonder if we're fighting on the wrong side of the war."

Berlitz wagged his tail, licking at Ludwig's face. Was that a sign of approval? Ludwig could never be sure with Berlitz – he always seemed rather opinionated for a dog.

"What would I do without you?" Ludwig asked, scratching the old dog behind his ear. "You know more of my secrets than my own brother. Mostly because you can't trust Gilbert with anything. He'd sell me out for one Reichspfennig, that bastard. He never could keep a secret for long. It was hell when he was seeing Elizabeta; every day he was calling me, begging for my help. What could I do? He got himself into that mess.

"I can't believe he got mixed up with a married woman, though. I knew Gilbert was one for adventure, but that's _too_ adventurous for him. I guess it ended up working out in the end and everyone was happy, except for Roderich."

Berlitz's ears suddenly perked up. He looked at the street, mouth curled into a snarl.

"Calm down, there's no one there," Ludwig said in a gentle voice, grabbing Berlitz's collar. If he ran off, Ludwig wasn't sure he could find his way home.

Berlitz kept growling, his legs bent and ready to chase after whatever was out there.

Ludwig put a hand on his pistol, the paranoia creeping back in. Working with the Gestapo made him distrustful of everything, this doubt often keeping him up at night worrying someone was out for him. And Berlitz didn't normally growl – he was a friendly spirit who wasn't anywhere near as suspicious as his master.

And then he saw who was putting Berlitz on edge.

Roderich von Wolffe was walking home, looking down at the sidewalk with his coat pull tight over his chest. He looked to be just as wary as Ludwig was, if not more. What was there for him to be afraid of?

 _Unless he's hiding something_.

" _Guten Tag_ , Herr von Wolffe," Ludwig called. Roderich instantly tensed up, turning to face Ludwig.

"Oh, _Guten Tag_ , Herr Beilschmidt," he stammered.

"It must've been quite the surprise to see Colonel Braginsky this morning," Ludwig said, trying to pull Roderich into a conversation.

Roderich nodded. "I'd nearly forgotten about him, thank you so much for reminding me. Well, now, I better be going."

"Where are you off to in such a rush?"

"I'm going to Wolfsburg."

Was that the reason for his worry? "Not to see Elizabeta, are you?" Ludwig asked. "Gilbert isn't on leave."

"I know that. This is strictly for business. I was working all day, you see, painting and all that, and I can't go in these clothes…" Roderich trailed off, the colour disappearing from his face.

"You don't have a job." Ludwig got up, keeping a firm grip on Berlitz's collar. He went over to Roderich, holding Berlitz back so there wasn't a fatality. "Where are you working now?"

"Before I tell you anything, you have to understand that everything is a horrible mistake. None of this was meant to happen. I didn't go up to this man and ask for a job," Roderich explained hurriedly.

"Where the hell are you working?"

"I made a mistake a few days ago," Roderich said, eyeing Berlitz. "And that mistake ended with me owing a lot to Basch Zwingli. I realize you two have a grudge or something, but I am not part of anything he's doing. All Basch is having me do is fix his house. If it's any consolation, I hate him, too."

"Basch Zwingli?" Ludwig echoed, hoping he'd heard right.

"Ja. Short, angry, blond, with a cute sister? Anyway, he thinks he owns me right now, and I have this 'debt' to work off. I'm not part of whatever you think he's doing, I promise."

"I'm just amazed you somehow got screwed up with him," Ludwig said. "He's a rather interesting character, but I could never see him with you."

"I can't see myself with him. If you're not going to arrest me, can I go? I've got to get to Wolfsburg," Roderich said, a bit of colour coming back into his face. "I'm terribly sorry for any trouble I've caused you."

"No, you haven't done anything. _Auf Wiedersehen."_

 _"Auf Wiedersehen."_

Ludwig watched the man until he reached the corner, smiling at how easily manipulated some people could be. Basch would have Roderich working for him in no time, and Roderich would never know it. He'd think he was still paying off his debts. It was a gutsy move, using Roderich like that. Basch must've thought he was pretty smart for coming up with such a plan.

"It's sad, Berlitz," Ludwig said as he went back inside. Berlitz followed him into the living room, laying down at the man's feet. "Some people truly are innocent, but they get mixed up with the wrong people. Roderich's a good man; down on his luck, but mostly good. Shame he'll have to be arrested with Basch."

Berlitz yipped happily.

"What sort of promotion do you think they'll give me, arresting a Resistance leader _and_ Hitler's Beethoven?"

* * *

Gilbert looked over the letter once more, making sure he wasn't misreading something or skipping over a line. The words were exactly the same as when he'd read them the past eight times; neat, looping cursive in perfect lines. He wanted to believe it was a joke, but Ludwig wasn't the joking type. Perhaps it was a mistake, a mistranslation? No, that would mean Ludwig – the perfect human being – would actually have to make an error.

He wasn't sure what to think anymore. Part of him was in denial, and the other part of him felt like he knew it all along. The whole idea was outlandish to begin with, however, the more Gilbert thought it over, the more it made sense.

Once again, Gilbert found himself rereading the paragraph Ludwig circled in red ink.

 _"I have reason to believe Colonel Braginsky is homosexual,"_ Ludwig wrote in his flawless cursive. " _You may have already figured this out, as you know him better than I do. Regardless, he seems to be very closeted about his behaviours. Hochstetter wasn't able to get any direct answers, we think his 'partner' of sorts is Toris Laurinaitis. Toris, on the other hand, wants no part of this relationship. Or maybe he does, again, I haven't actually met him. And I'm not saying you should separate the two – it is your prison camp – but you may want to consider it."_

Gilbert put the letter down on his desk, holding his head. _How could I have missed something as big as Ivan's sexuality?_ he asked himself. _For God's sake, I've put up with the man every damn day for the past year! I know him better than I know my wife! Shouldn't it all have been obvious? No, he's a secretive kind of bastard._

"Gilbert? I have Toris, do you want me to send him in?" Elizabeta called from the other room.

" _Bitte."_

Elizabeta pushed open the door, giving Toris an encouraging nudge. He came into the office, looking like a lost puppy. Gilbert already knew the first thing out of his mouth would be an apology just by looking at him.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't even know what I did this time," Toris said, exactly as Gilbert suspected. "Is this about Raivis? Please don't get mad at him, sir. He's fourteen, he doesn't know any better."

"Sit down," Gilbert ordered. Toris immediately complied, seeming much more submissive than usual.

"Please don't put him in solitary, he has an abandonment problem. Raivis can't handle being alone for long periods of time," Toris added like a worried mother. "He gets scared."

"This isn't about Galante. This is about you."

"Me?" Toris asked.

"And you're not in trouble, either." Gilbert paused for a moment, looking for the right words to use. "I need you to answer a few questions honestly, no matter what the answer may be. I promise I won't use anything against you."

Toris tucked a stray strand of his dark hair behind his ear, his face already growing red. "So you've found out about Ivan, haven't you?"

"I must say, I was…startled," Gilbert said, amazed that Toris already knew what he was going to say. Was he prepared for this conversation?

"Everyone is. They think I'm 'too innocent' or 'too good.' And no one ever suspects Ivan."

"Well, then, I guess I won't have to ease into things for you. All I want is honest answers. You do have a right to refuse to answer, as well. And no matter what you say, you still have my respect. Now, are you and Colonel Braginsky in a romantic relationship?"

Toris shrugged. "I say it isn't one, he may say it is, we're not sure at this point."

"I won't tell Braginsky any of this – you can give me the honest answer."

"It's more of a possessive friendship than anything, if that makes sense. I don't think there's love involved. Of course, I could be wrong," Toris said. "I tend to be wrong about a lot of things."

"So, do you believe Braginsky is homosexual?" Gilbert asked.

"I don't know, to be honest. He's just sort of…Ivan? He's never told me about any romances with anyone else. And sometimes he tries to be romantic with me, but it's mostly joking stuff, never serious. Again, I could be misreading everything. I'm kind of oblivious to things like this."

"And are you…you know?"

"In love with him?" Toris finished. He gave Gilbert a tired smile, like he'd been asked the same question time and time again. "No. No I'm not. This started out as a friendship, and I intend to end it that way."

"But are you gay too?" Gilbert said, feeling horrible for asking such a rude question.

"Me?" Toris almost laughed, his green eyes gleaming. "Nobody's ever asked about me. Um…I don't think I am. No, maybe…Can you be slightly homosexual? Like not 'technically' in love with another man, but you think he's cute? No, no, no, I'm definitely heterosexual. But then again…" he faltered, trying to make up his mind. "I definitely like women. I think."

"I can see why no one ever asks you," Gilbert muttered. "This should just be a yes or no question."

"Oh, um, no? I really can't answer that; I've never actually loved someone. I'd like to think I'm heterosexual, if that makes any difference."

"Please be serious with this question. Do you want me to remove you from Barrack Two?" Gilbert asked.

Toris' smile was gone in an instant. "No. I have to stay there."

"Toris, I don't want Braginsky to hurt you or use you. If something is going on, tell me."

"I can't leave, though. I have to take care of Raivis, and make sure Eduard isn't coming up with a stupid escape plan, and keep Alfred in line. We're like a family, you see, and I'm in charge of making sure no one gets hurt. And I can suffer through a few more years with Ivan," Toris reassured him. "I'll be fine."

"If you say so. If you ever want out, come talk to me," Gilbert said, folding up Ludwig's letter and burying it under the ever growing pile of papers on his desk. He'd like to leave it there and forget about the whole ordeal, but someday he'd finally do his work and find the letter again.

"Thank you, sir. Is there anything else you'd like to ask me?"

Gilbert thought for a moment, making sure he hadn't missed anything. "No, I can't think of anything else. Would you tell Elizabeta to send Colonel Braginsky in?"

"Yes, sir."

Ivan came in soon after Toris left, keeping strangely quiet. Gilbert waited for him to say something, to make some joke about the Gestapo, but he was silent. He sat down, keeping his eyes focused on the floor. Again, Gilbert waited for a smile or a rude comment.

Nothing.

Who was this man sitting in front of him? He certainly wasn't Colonel Braginsky, Gilbert decided. He wasn't smiling, laughing, joking, doing anything Ivan normally did. This man was quiet; unnervingly, deathly quiet. His eyes were empty without their playful twinkle. His fingers were rusted with dried blood, held straight by splints and white tape. Everything about him looked _broken_. Nose, fingers, wit, spirit.

"Welcome back," Gilbert said, hoping that would prompt a response.

"Would you skip to the part where you make me wish I was dead?" Ivan asked in a dull voice. Where was the life?

"So, tell me about your Gestapo visit."

Ivan looked up, his eyes pleading for pity. "Please, Herr Commandant. Get it over with."

"What did they do to you in Vienna?" Gilbert asked. He'd thought it would feel good to see Ivan so defeated – but it felt terrible. He wasn't expecting Ivan to be this beaten.

"Don't you want to call me any names?" Ivan sounded desperate now, asking to be insulted. "Don't you want to see me fall apart again?"

"You and I both know I live for your suffering. However, even I have standards. Give me a few days or so, and then I'll start insulting you. Right now, I want answers. Where did you send that file to?"

"Vienna," Ivan muttered, picking at the loose strings of his scarf.

"Why?"

"I felt like it. Come on, sir, don't you want to call me out?" He sighed, glancing back up at Gilbert. "You know you want to remind me how I'm such a gay, sex crazed demon. Would you just say it already?!"

"I wasn't going to say that," Gilbert snapped. "And who the hell called you that?"

"Your brother's friend. Your brother said worse. Most of it was about my relationship with Toris. Your brother told me I should kill myself."

And only then did it make sense. Gilbert figured out how they got Ivan to snap – why didn't he think of it first? He'd tried using Toris as leverage in the past, but he never used him correctly. Ludwig and Hochstetter must've built upon the two's relationship instead of going right to threatening to murder Toris.

"To answer your question, no, I've never had sex with Toris. Hell, I've never even kissed him. But you people are so damned twisted, you'd do anything to see me break," Ivan muttered. "You'd make up all these lies about me just to see me snap. And now you've done it. I can't even look at Toris the same way."

"You brought this all upon yourself when you stole that file," Gilbert reminded him. "So stop trying to play victim here. Next time you want to steal something, make sure it's worth it. Ludwig's sending all that information right back to me – your pretend mission was worthless."

"I'm not playing victim."

"Yes, you are."

"Can you give me my sentence so I can go back to my insignificant life?"

"You want a sentence?" Gilbert growled. "Fifteen days in solitary, all privileges revoked for two months, and you sure as hell aren't going to see Toris for a long time."

"Oh, already playing off the 'Ivan's a gay man' card, aren't we? Guess what, I don't need to see anyone. I can live the rest of my life alone. Or I can end it myself like the bastard you call a brother suggested. There's an idea." Ivan gave him a faked smile, showing off a blank space between his front tooth and canine.

Gilbert tried his best not to laugh, but how could he not? Ivan looked like a child, innocent and clueless and strangely faultless. It didn't fit his personality at all.

"Laughing at a man at his wit's end," Ivan snarled. "That's what you Nazis have come to."

"You look like you're five, who wouldn't laugh? And besides, no one can commit suicide here without written permission from Berlin and Moscow, in your case."

Ivan stood up, his intact hand clenched into a fist. "Watch me. Watch me find a way to kill myself."

"You'll get over it soon, and then go back to being you. Someone will talk you out of it, it'll be painfully dramatic, lots of tears and all that heartbreaking stuff. I have no doubt that you'll be fine come October," Gilbert said, waving Ivan off. "Have fun in solitary confinement."

Ivan didn't bother to say anything else when the guard came in and grabbed him, only giving Gilbert glares.

"That went well," Elizabeta called after the door slammed closed.

"He said he's going to kill himself," Gilbert replied, still smiling at the thought of Ivan's missing tooth.

"Really?"

Gilbert got up, going out into the adjoining room. "What," he said, leaning up against the door frame, "are you worried?"

"He's a very determined person and he just might."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head. Ivan will be perfectly…" Gilbert trailed off, watching a polished black Horch pull into the main yard. It wasn't a staff car – no, there would've been Nazi flags and a driver, but the man was by himself. "Hey, was anyone supposed to visit us today?"

"Not that I was aware of," Elizabeta answered, glancing out the window.

"Probably some jackass general thinking he can tell me what to do," Gilbert mumbled. He went out to the front porch, Elizabeta following close behind.

The man who got out of the car looked professional, to say the least. He stood tall and was well dressed, indigo eyes hidden behind glasses. His dark hair framed his pale face, a stray strand making a curl. He looked like the kind of man described in romance novels, dark and mysterious and not quite perfect. Gilbert could tell he was some sort of Nazi elite, but who?

" _Heil Hitler,"_ the man said, giving Gilbert the relaxed salute reserved for acquaintances and again, the leaders of the Third Reich. That man must've thought he was something special.

" _Heil Hitler,"_ Gilbert said.

The man came up to the two, giving them the look Gilbert used with his prisoners, the "you-are-lower-than-me" look. "Pleasure to see you again, Frau Beilschmidt. I can see your standards have gone down since we last spoke." His voice was just as condescending as his expression.

"Same could be said for you," Elizabeta replied with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice. "I've heard you've taken up drowning your sorrows in beer."

"Who isn't at this point? Still beats having Snowflake over here for a husband," he shot back, gesturing to Gilbert.

"Drunk."

"I'd rather be an alcoholic than a backstabbing cheat like you," the man said with a smile.

"Excuse you, but that's my wife you're talking about," Gilbert snarled, stepping between the two. "Who the hell do you think you are, coming into my camp and talking shit?"

"You must be the infamous Colonel Beilschmidt," he said. "And you're so much better than me? Have you ever been out in the sun?"

Gilbert grabbed the man by his collar, wishing he could break his pretty face. "You have two seconds to get out of here before I murder you."

"Murder me?" The man started laughing, as if Gilbert really wouldn't kill him. "Oh, my, you'd have the Führer out for your ugly hide."

Gilbert pushed the man away from him, cradling the pistol he kept in his pocket. "Who the hell are you?"

The man stuck out his hand. "My name is Roderich von Wolffe. And believe me, I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

* * *

 **A/N: Shame, I couldn't find any real history notes this time around. Don't worry, though, the next chapter has a TON of explanations behind it. You'll get your history fix.**

 **Translation notes:**

 _ **Untermensch**_ **– literally "under person" in German. Used to describe the "inferior people" like Jews, Roma, Slavs, and black people.**

 _ **Da. Ochen', ochen' bol'no. Razbityy –**_ **Yes. Very, very hurt. Broken.**

 _ **Je vais devoir le tuer –**_ **I'd have to kill him.**

 _ **Arrêtez d'être un tel enfant. Il était seulement vingt minutes, qui ne va pas te tuer –**_ **Stop being such a child. It was only twenty minutes, which isn't going to kill you.**

 _ **Je ne veux pas un homme qui est pas ponctuel, fin de l'histoire –**_ **I don't want a man who isn't punctual, end of story.**

 **Shout out to my awesome Jewish uncle, who helped with the Yiddish. If you can read Yiddish and something isn't right with my translations, my uncle is 70, he can't remember a whole lot.**

 **And again, I can barely speak German. I don't know any foreign languages, so all my stuff comes from Google Translate and a few unreliable sources. Thank you for understanding.**

 **Oh, boy, there were a lot of new reviewers/followers! Thank you to** Resistant Raisin **,** booklover4816 **,** GoneInASecond **,** Chizu5645 **,** EllaAwkward **,** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** gaubong708 **,** mk109 **,** Nyxzia **,** CitizenofHedwigpolis **,** SaoirseParisa **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **! I feel really popular right now!**

 **I haven't said this in a while, but I hope all you guys are doing well. I'd be sincerely worried if something happened to you. I know, I'm such a mom friend, but you wonderful people are the sole reason I'm still working on this story.**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	11. Troppo

" _You're_ Roderich von Wolffe?"

"Yes, that is my name. What, were you expecting a blond?"

Roderich could tell Gilbert was expecting a strong Aryan man to go with a strong Aryan name like Roderich von Wolffe. Who was Gilbert to judge appearances? The colonel was no perfect German either. Roderich didn't know if he'd ever made a mental image of Gilbert Beilschmidt – it surely wasn't what the man before him looked like. He oddly reminded Roderich of a pet rabbit with his white hair and red eyes, the storm grey of his uniform clashing with his pale skin. And the scars that ran across his face only made it worse.

"And how the hell did you get up there with the Führer?" Gilbert asked. "You look like a Jew."

Roderich's heart stopped. He looked over at Elizabeta, who turned away from him with her nose in the air. Had she said something to Gilbert, a subtle hint at who Roderich truly was? She was the wild card, after all, the one person Francis _couldn't_ control. No one but Francis had been in contact with her since the divorce – plenty of time for her to rip apart the seams of Roderich's story.

 _It's only an insult,_ Roderich reminded himself. _If he knew everything, he wouldn't be talking to me. He would've had me arrested a long time ago. I can't let him get to me this easily._

"He found me because I actually have talent," Roderich continued, his voice shakier and slightly higher than normal. "And I'm sure the Führer would love to hear about how one of his colonels called me a Jew. Tell me, are you more of a cyanide or arsenic person? Or maybe a firing squad fits your tastes?"

Gilbert clenched his hands into fists; it was a wonder he hadn't already turned to violence. Deep down, Roderich knew he shouldn't be sassing a man who could have him shot and write it off as an accident. Gilbert was slightly taller, much stronger, and had plenty of excuses. Elizabeta would surely back up any "accidents" with her stories about Roderich, leaving the musician with nothing more than his fists to defend himself.

"Did you come here to piss us off or do you actually have something you need done?" Gilbert asked, arms folded over his medallion covered chest.

"You have a prisoner by the name of Alfred Jones. I need to speak with him."

"Impossible. He's in solitary confinement right now, and even if he wasn't, I wouldn't let your sorry ass anywhere near him."

"May I remind you whose orders I'm under? The Führer doesn't like it when insignificant people get in his way. Colonels like you are replaceable, you know," Roderich said with a smile.

"Would you back off, Roderich? He said you can't talk with Alfred, and that's final. Now go back to Vienna and don't show your face here ever again," Elizabeta snapped.

It hurt to hear her call him by name. The piece of Roderich that was still madly in love with Elizabeta stabbed at his heart, making him feel guilty and worthless. For months now he'd wanted to hear that voice just one more time – he didn't imagine it would be so harsh.

Actually, their first meeting since the divorce wasn't going anywhere near like he'd planned it in his head. In his fantasy world, Elizabeta would see him again and realize what a mistake she'd made. They'd go back to Vienna as the happy couple they were five years ago and forget about Colonel Beilschmidt, living the life that was meant to be.

He'd forgotten that Elizabeta hated him.

Roderich forced thoughts of asking for Elizabeta to come back from his mind, keeping the same stern tone he was using with Gilbert. "On a first name basis again, are we? Well then, _Elizabeta_ , stay out of my business."

"How _dare_ you call me by my first name." Elizabeta stepped forward, grabbing Roderich by his tie. She pulled him in close, close than he'd been with her in a long time. He could smell the perfume on her wrist, sweet, sharp, expensive. Something Roderich would've had to save for months to buy. "I am Frau Beilschmidt to you, you alcoholic bastard."

"It's sad, really," Roderich said. "No matter how much I drink I can't ever forget how much I despise you."

"Why don't you drink yourself dead?"

"You'd love to find out I died, wouldn't you? Well, Frau Beilschmidt, I'm happy to inform you I won't be dying anytime soon."

Elizabeta smiled, pulling him in closer. "You could," she whispered. "I know _everything_ , remember? I'm keeping quiet for now, but if you keep this up, I may feel compelled to tell Gilbert a detail or two. Maybe a mention of your last name." Her voice was smooth and cold as she spoke, her smile devilish.

"You wouldn't," Roderich said, pulling away from the woman. He hated that she had this much power over him – she could make him do anything she wanted. "We had a promise."

"And I can break that promise right now. Leave."

Roderich knew not to argue. He would be bargaining everything if he didn't turn around immediately and go home. And for the most part, he wanted to leave. However, there was always the wild side of him, the side that screamed "do it" in every potentially dangerous situation. This was the side that led to bar fights, rejections, broken bones, and what he did next.

"I'm not going until you let me see Alfred Jones," he said, standing tall even though he was about to have a panic attack. "I need to speak with that man. You can say whatever you want about me; I need to see Jones."

"You're risking everything for one lazy pilot?"

"No, I'm not. I know you won't say anything. You have a heart, Frau Beilschmidt. You want to say something against me, you truly do. And you can't bring yourself to do it."

Roderich was riding everything on the hope that Elizabeta had a shred of compassion left. It was senseless, it was likely to get him arrested, and it could be the end. He thought he could hear it in the way she spoke – her words weren't the same as Gilbert's. They were softer, more compassionate. Like she had a part of her that wanted to protect Roderich. That or Elizabeta pulled Roderich right into a trap.

Elizabeta smiled again, twisting a stray strand of hair around her finger. "Gilbert, will you please let him see Alfred so I don't have to talk with him anymore?" she asked.

Roderich waited for her to add "oh, and Roderich's Jewish, his last name is actually Edelstein," but she didn't. Elizabeta was quiet. For once, she was staying true to her word.

"What do you even want with Alfred? He's not the smartest man around and I doubt he knows anything about music," Gilbert said, looking at Roderich and then Elizabeta. He too could see that there was something between them, a thin strand that hadn't snapped with the divorce. And he wasn't happy about it.

"That's none of your concern," Roderich answered. "Just let me talk to the man."

"Alright, let's go talk to Alfred!" Gilbert marched off towards a building surrounded by a fence, grumbling _verdammts_ and _scheisses_.

Gilbert led Roderich past a pair of guards and into the building, muttering curses all the while. Down a flight of stairs, through another heavy door, and down a hall full of steel doors; every step was accompanied by a sentence laden with disgust towards Roderich. Gilbert stopped his profanities for a moment, pounding his fist on one of the doors. When there wasn't an immediate answer, he kicked the door a few times.

"Alfred F. Jones, get your ass up!" Gilbert shouted, kicking the door again.

"What do you want?" Alfred said. "I was having an important conversation with Toris."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Please, you're too dumb to hold an important conversation. You've got someone who wants to see you here. Don't you dare tackle me when I open the door."

"I have to practice for football, though. I might forget how to tackle. And besides, you make a great target."

"Practice with someone else. The electric fence would be a nice start."

"You have to take the fun out of everything," Alfred whined, sounding more like a teenager than a soldier. Roderich suspected Alfred wasn't a grey haired general.

"I do not," Gilbert said as he pulled a loop of what seemed to be a thousand keys from his pocket, shoving one into the lock.

"You know I hate to agree with Alfred, Herr Commandant," a different voice said. "However, you do ruin a lot of our fun."

"Laurinaitis, I…I don't have a good threat against you right now. I'll think of one," Gilbert muttered, pushing open the door. The young man sprawled out on the bed looked up, the dull blue of his RAF uniform matching his eyes.

"What's up, Eye…" His voice faded into the silence of solitary confinement as he realized the person with Gilbert wasn't whoever he thought it was. "You're not Artie." He studied Roderich for a moment, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. "Is this one of your Nazi friends? Herr Commandant, what the hell are you bringing me Nazis for?"

"No, he's not a friend, and I don't know why he's here, to be honest. Listen, Herr von Wolffe, you got five minutes. And then you're out of here," Gilbert said, tapping his watch. "If you don't go when I tell you to go, you're a dead man."

"Let me talk to the boy."

Gilbert sighed, pulling the door shut. Roderich waited until the footsteps disappeared before he looked back at Alfred – he suddenly felt like he'd picked the wrong person to speak with. Alfred looked to be no older than fifteen, he was in the wrong uniform, and he wanted nothing to do with Roderich.

"What sort of Nazi propaganda do you have for us today, Herr von Wolffe?" Alfred asked. "Get ready, Toris, this is going to be good. He looks kind of like Himmler, too. Say, you wouldn't be Himmler's kid, would you?"

"His last name is von Wolffe, how could he be Himmler's son?" said the man in the other cell, Toris.

"He really does look like him, though. Only not so…Himmler-y."

"That isn't a real word."

"I'm not Himmler's son or a propaganda man," Roderich snapped. "I'm here to speak with you about music, and you are required to answer. First question – are you an American?"

"What sort of opening line is that? Hell yes I'm an American and proud," Alfred said. "I don't have a swastika on my arm and I don't got a stupid accent, what else could I be?"

"Don't have, Alfred. You don't have a stupid accent," Toris corrected. "And you do have a stupid accent, stop lying to yourself."

"My accent is adorable. All your Russian girls fall for cute Americans."

"If you're an American, why are you in RAF uniform?" Roderich asked, watching Alfred pull at a loose string on his jacket instead of make eye contact. From what Roderich knew of Americans, he certainly fit the stereotype.

"This is what I got captured in. You see, I was in LA when you Nazis went off and started a war. I wanted to be part of it. So I met up with this guy, Sweeny, and I go to Canada," Alfred explained in a painfully bored tone. "They send me to Paris to join the French Air Force. Paris was going to shit, wasn't no place for me. I make my way to London. The RAF says they can use spirited, foolish Americans like me. They give me a helluva nice Spitfire. Assigned me a squadron, gave me a uniform, all that. Set me up for success. First mission I go out on?" Alfred slammed his fist against the wall, talking in fast, angry English.

"What he's trying to say is that he was shot down and captured," Toris said. "And now he's here."

"Someday I'll come back for you Germans. I'll finally kill one of you," Alfred said, looking back at Roderich with fire in his sky blue eyes. "I promise. Who knows, I may even kill your daddy."

"For the last time, Himmler is not my father. Now, tell me everything you know about swing music," Roderich demanded.

"I'm sorry, tell you about what?" Alfred asked, his anger from earlier gone. "What does a Nazi want with swing music?"

"For the love of… answer the damn question, kid."

"You don't have to be rude." Alfred appeared to be slightly interested in what Roderich had to say now, going so far as to sit up straight. "What do you want to know about it?"

"Start with the technicalities."

"Um, so…swing's kind of like jazz, only not? It's a lot louder and faster. And you don't got any singers," Alfred said.

"Don't have! It's not that difficult to use proper grammar!" Toris sounded on the verge of a mental breakdown – how long had he been stuck with Alfred and his bad grammar? Roderich felt a twinge of guilt for the poor man.

"Whatever. And anyway, you have your main instruments – trumpet, clarinet, saxophones, trombones, drums, and sometimes a piano. There's usually a few soloists and stuff," Alfred added.

"What's the tempo like?" Roderich asked.

"You can have some fast songs, and you can also have slow, dance-y songs. I'm confused – isn't this kind of music illegal with you krauts?"

"I work for the Führer. He asked for swing music. Simple as that," Roderich said.

"You work for Hitler? You, Himmler's son, work for Hitler?" Alfred asked with a grin. "I want to ask my own questions, von Wolffe. How in the world did you end up with Hitler other than through your daddy?"

"Again, Himmler is not my father. I have talents that he found interesting."

Alfred crossed his arms, shaking his head in disbelief. "What sort of talents?"

"Absolute pitch, the ability to learn an instrument in a little less than three days, I've wrote entire symphonies in a week, those sorts of things."

"So you're like, a real composer? Like Mozart and those guys?" Alfred asked.

"If that's what you want to –"

"Your five minutes are up!" Gilbert announced, shoving the door open. He grabbed Roderich by the collar, dragging him away from Alfred.

"I wasn't done talking to him," Roderich said, taking Gilbert's hand from his collar. "And I don't appreciate being handled like an animal."

"Get out of here, Herr von Wolffe. Get the hell out of my camp and never come back. I don't care what you're doing for Hitler. You aren't welcome here," Gilbert growled in a venomous voice, his hand going to his pocket again.

There was nothing Roderich could say. Gilbert had been reasonably generous, considering the things Roderich said to him. And fighting would encourage Elizabeta to talk. Roderich looked back at Alfred, silently pleading for him to say something to buy more time.

Alfred smiled and stuck up his middle finger.

* * *

Of course the water was cold. What was Basch thinking? It was the middle of September, not June. He took a deep breath, following after Mathias. The Dane seemed to be fine with the frigid waters of the stream, humming a song to himself as he climbed over fallen trees and huge rocks. Basch vaguely remembered Mathias talking about swimming in the North Sea – he must've been conditioned to freezing water.

"What's taking you so long, Shorty?" Mathias called, glancing back at Basch. "You never been in a stream before?"

"Would you keep it down? Someone may be out here with us."

"Like who? Oh, no, there's a wild Gestapo man roaming through the woods, hope he doesn't hear us," Mathias said, chuckling at his own joke.

"Keep laughing. It'll be real damn funny when we get caught," Basch muttered.

Of all the things he did for the Underground, destruction missions were his least favourite. He loved watching things explode, but not setting up the explosives. There were ways to get out of every other sort of meet-up – he'd done it time and time again. Getting caught was part of the fun, as Basch turned out to be rather good at talking his way out of trouble. However, there was no way to explain carrying a bomb. If he got caught on one destruction mission, it was all over.

The dying sunset painted the forest in oranges and yellows, making strange shadows that didn't seem to belong to anything. Destructions were already bad enough, only now he was doing it at seven p.m. with the loudest human in Vienna. It was too light out, there wasn't any place to hide, several people lived nearby, and Mathias would _not_ shut up.

They would've been wiring explosives under the cover of night, except Mathias had to work that night and Basch made the mistake of letting Roderich and Francis stay with Lilli. He didn't even want to think about what those three were doing – hopefully, there wouldn't be any injuries when he came home. Basch knew Francis was working on getting two families fake papers, and Roderich had been complaining about some music thing for the past few days, but that didn't mean they wouldn't try anything that guaranteed a trip to the hospital.

"This is the bridge, right?" Mathias asked as they came around bend in the stream, motioning to the rusty bridge. "It looks like I could tear it down by climbing on it." He took off his backpack, handing a homemade time bomb and a roll of tape to Basch.

"You're getting much better with explosives," Basch said, examining the bomb like it was art. The wires were coiled perfectly, the black tape holding the sticks of dynamite perfectly horizontal. "This looks pretty professional."

"That's the one Lukas made. This is mine." He pulled another bomb from the bag, his nowhere near as impressive as Lukas'. Mathias had taped a cracked alarm clock to the bundle – actually, black tape made up most of the bomb – and the detonator wires were a snarled mess. Thankfully, bombs didn't have to be pretty if they worked.

Mathias slung the bag back over his shoulder, grabbing onto one of the supports under the bridge. It groaned as he pulled himself up, putting Basch on edge again. Mathias shouted a few curses in his native language, slamming a fist against the supports. How had someone not heard them yet?

Basch went over to the opposite side, pulling himself up into the various beams holding up the bridge. Mathias was right – the bridge was already weak enough to break with much less force than the bombs carried.

Balancing against a post, Basch began the delicate task of setting up a time bomb. First, he excessively taped it to an important looking beam; they couldn't risk having a good bomb fall in the water. Explosives were expensive, and the section of the black market that would serve resistance movements made sure of that. After making sure the bomb wasn't going anywhere, Basch shoved the tape back in his pocket and prepared himself for the next step.

Setting the timer was nerve-wracking. He'd done it hundreds of times before, and each time was just as bad as the last. There was always the chance for a fatal error, if the mechanism somehow slipped and the bomb went off before he could get away. The chance was larger with a homemade bomb – even though Lukas was very precise about his work, his main concern wasn't Basch's safety.

With a slightly trembling hand, Basch twisted the knob on the alarm to 11:32 – the exact time a convoy was to pass over the bridge, or at least according to Francis' calculations. Hopefully, everything would run smoothly and there wouldn't be some uncalled for delay. Francis gave the convoy a five-minute margin; after that, there would only be a missing bridge.

"Shorty, are you done yet?" Mathias asked, walking along the supports over to Basch.

"Yes, I'm almost done," Basch said. "And don't think I'll drag your body home if you fall." He took his hand away from the bomb, waiting for the explosion. For a minute, there was silence. Even Mathias stopped talking, watching the clump of dynamite. Another minute passed. Then another. The rhythmic _tick-tick-tick_ of the alarm clock counted down the seconds to 11:32, working exactly as they'd hoped.

Basch survived another Lukas-made time bomb.

"Alright, we didn't die today!" Mathias cheered, swinging down from the support and landing in the stream. Basch jumped down from his perch, following after the Dane.

By the time they got back to the road, night had already swallowed everything up. There were no lights along the back road, no way to see what was in front of them. Basch kept a hand in his pocket, running his fingers over the barrel of his P38. Some people wrung their hands when they got nervous – Basch found a gun to hold.

"We ought to save some money and buy a car," Mathias said. "I know a guy who wants to desert. He has a real nice Kübelwagen we could buy."

"You can't drive a Kübelwagen in Vienna."

"Why not?" Mathias picked up a chunk of gravel, throwing it at the sign pointing to Vienna. It bounced off with a pleasing _ding,_ disappearing into the shadows.

"Are you joking? Those cars are for military people, not losers like you," Basch said.

"I could get myself a uniform. I'd make a handsome soldier. General Andersen," he said in a deep voice. "I like that. And you could be my secretary, Private Zwingli."

Basch gave Mathias a shove with his free hand. "A private? I should be the general. And are you seriously considering the Kübelwagen?"

"Come on, Shorty, it's a great idea," Mathias said, putting an arm around Basch's shoulder. "Think about it; you, me, Lukas, a few beers, and a Kübelwagen! What could possibly go wrong?"

"Everything."

The seemingly endless road back to Vienna was less endless with Mathias. Usually, Basch walked home at three in the morning all by himself, cradling a gun and praying he wouldn't run into anyone. Mathias gave him a bit of excitement and humour, a little adventure. Even though Basch denied it, he rather appreciated the Dane's company.

Soon they were on the fringe of the city, Mathias walking along the edge of the curb, telling an animated story about his adventures with the black market. He was mocking voices and laughing and nearly lost his balance several times. Basch half listened, half watched as Mathias explained one of his first meet-ups. His smile was brighter under the lamplight, hands moving in over exaggerated gestures. And then his smile faded as the story came to a close, blue eyes looking over at Basch.

"What's going on with you, Basch? I've talked this whole time, and you haven't said anything. Is something bothering you?" he asked with the most sincerity Basch had ever heard out of his mouth.

"What makes you think that? I'm fine."

Mathias stepped away from the curb, coming back to Basch's side. He looked over the man for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. "It's the box again, isn't it?"

"Aw, hell, that thing's always bothering me," Basch said. "Can't bring myself to get rid of it, though."

"You should. I…I could take it from you. Burn it. Drop it in the river," Mathias said, putting a supportive hand on Basch's shoulder. "No one deserves to hold onto something like that for so long."

"I've got to. When you make promises, you don't break 'em. And, ja, I know what happened, but I have a tiny shred of faith he made it out alright. I think the kid's still out there, because Francis said he wasn't reported in the capture papers. Maybe he'll find his way back to me."

Mathias looked down at the cracked pavement, his fingers burrowing into Basch's shoulder. He remembered. "Basch, he's…" He paused, glancing back up at Basch. "You're a good man. If you ever want the box off your hands, I'll take it. I promise I'll keep it safe for him."

"Feliks. His name was Feliks."

"I'll keep it safe for Feliks." Mathias ruffled Basch's hair like a loving father, his smile no longer cheery.

Basch kept repeating the boy's name in his head as he said his goodbyes to Mathias. The name dug deeper into his heart as he walked down the empty street to his home. He could see the shy boy on his doorstep, clutching a small bundle in his coat, hidden behind his mother. How old would Feliks be now? Surely in his twenties, a strong, blond, bubbly Pole. Too happy for his life, too caught up on a friend, too hopeful.

Now that bundle in Feliks' coat rested beneath the porch, a ghost from a past Basch didn't want to remember. He never opened the box Feliks trusted him with, figuring it was some long kept secret. A secret he handed over to Basch.

He could see the report now, its bold words forever ingrained into his memory.

 _Captured – Łukasiewicz, Fryderyk; Łukasiewicz, Cecylia. Hung for trying to escape. No further remarks._

 _Missing – Łukasiewicz, Feliks. Not armed. Wounded. Expected to be dead within a week. No further remarks._

Basch suddenly found himself in front of his house, the memories of the capture report disappearing like smoke into the air. The lights were still on, figures flitting back and forth over the curtains. What were they doing up so late? It was almost eleven, half an hour away from the "collapse" of a key bridge. He would've expected the lights to be out, not a soul in sight.

Did he even want to know what was going on inside?

He walked up to the front door, putting a hand on the knob. From inside, he could hear Roderich's muffled complaints, Francis' laughter, and…music? Basch sighed, pushing open the door.

The first thing he noticed was that his house now smelled of cigarettes, courtesy of Francis and Roderich. Smoke hung heavy over the kitchen table, which was completely covered in papers. The papers were full of sheet music, scratched out and ripped up. Roderich was slumped over the table, cigarette in hand, muttering curses. Francis wasn't doing much of anything, and Lilli was sorting through the illegal vinyl records. An English voice sang the background music for the disastrous scene, adding to the strangeness of it all.

"It doesn't make any sense," Roderich said, speaking for Basch.

"I'm sure it will soon, Herr von Wolffe." Lilli took a record from the pile, making another stack. "We have to keep trying. Oh, hello, Basch."

"Hello. What are you doing?" Basch asked, looking to Francis for an answer. He looked to be the only one in his right mind.

"We're helping Roderich write music. He sort of forgot he had to turn in work by Tuesday," Francis explained with a wave of his cigarette. "So far, we have nothing. I think it's going great."

"You have one day left to write a whole damn piece?"

"Unfortunately. I had two weeks to work on it, and that fell apart when you kidnapped me." Roderich scribbled another measure on the page he was working on, drawing little notes along the lines. "I figure I'll end up picking up the scraps and forcing them together into a piece."

"He'll be fine," Francis said. "And if he doesn't get it done, he'll be dead. Either way ends horribly."

"Thanks, Francis, that really lightens up the situation," Roderich groaned, pushing another paper away from him. He looked at the chaos for a long time, void of any expression. "I'm going home," he said in a pale voice, sounding almost unsure of his words. "If you don't see me tomorrow, sorry. I just…need some time to think about things."

"Please tell me you aren't going to do what I think you are," Francis said.

"No, I'm a responsible adult. I'll be fine. If you do happen to find me later on tonight, would you be a dear and take me home?"

* * *

The scarf was supposed to be white. Hints of the original colour were scattered about the scarf in splotches, like snowflakes on a field of pink wool. No matter how many times the scarf was thrown in the Volga or wrung out by rough hands, the pink wouldn't fade. As time wore on, the spots of white were disappearing faster and faster, replaced by pink. Eventually, the whole scarf would become the soft, powdery pink everyone associated with innocence and childhood, but never blood.

Ivan ran his thumb over the cursed pink, trying to remember what he was like when the scarf was still white. Childish and wishful and lost in a perfect world. As the scarf changed colours, Ivan changed. He was scared, alone, hopeless, and bleeding. Every day he bled and bled and _bled_. The scarf soaked up the red, which turned to pink when Ivan tried to wash it out. Years' worth of blood was held deep in the wool, reminding Ivan that he couldn't go back to the pure white of childhood.

He held the scarf over his broken nose, searching for the scent of home. Occasionally he could find it amongst the smoke and vodka and bad memories – a warm, tender sort of smell that didn't belong to anything. It made him wonder what his real house was like before sickness and death. Before anger crept in, before Ivan was thrown to the streets, before life went to hell.

Gently, Ivan took the scarf from his neck and placed it in a messy pile next to him. His fingers went to the scars on his neck, running over each one. He knew each by name, perfectly recalling when he got them.

 _One for lying_ , Ivan said to himself, tracing a scar that ran down his collarbone.

 _One for stealing._

 _One for breaking._

 _One for crying._

 _One for nothing._

 _One for being Ivan Braginsky._

Exactly six. In Russia, even numbers were considered unlucky. Sometimes, Ivan wondered if the six scars controlled him more than he thought. Perhaps if he added his own and made seven, his luck would change. Several times he'd almost put a knife to his neck and done it, made seven scars. And then he realized how foolish of an idea that was. What if his hand slipped and he ended up slitting his throat? Scars didn't control anything, even if they were unlucky.

Six unlucky scars, made with anger. Some nights, he could feel the hot pipe against his neck; burning, ruining, marking. Full of hate and pain. Breaking Ivan. Destroying a lonely young boy and making him into a cold man. Taking away his feelings and leaving Ivan scarred and hollow.

He wanted someone to fill that empty space. For years, he'd wandered eastern Europe looking for that person, cheating a few people and changing identities several times along the way. Ivan never found someone he felt he could trust with everything, someone who could take all the bad and turn it into good and fill the hollowness.

Until he met Toris.

Toris was the first person in years to know Ivan's real name. He was the first person to see who the real Ivan was, the shy man hiding behind different names and a pink scarf. He was the first person to talk to Ivan, to make him smile, to fill the void. It was supposed to last forever.

And now he couldn't bear to speak to Toris. He couldn't bring himself to say the man's name. Ivan wanted to talk to him so badly, to explain his feelings and maybe cry. He couldn't. The Gestapo men were right – Toris couldn't stand him. He'd played along with Ivan for six unlucky years, pretending to care for him. Maybe there was something in the first years, a real hint of friendship. But after that, it was Ivan ruining an innocent boy. Staining Toris' white scarf pink.

Tears stung at Ivan's eyes, old friends by now. He gave a shaky sigh, letting the tears fall down his bruised face. Crying himself to sleep was just as normal for Ivan as talking. In a way, it was almost comforting to know he had a real emotion left.

"Excuse me for asking, sir," Toris' gentle voice called out. "Why are you crying?"

Ivan clenched his good hand tight around the end of his scarf. He couldn't answer Toris, not when all he could think of was how he destroyed the man. Toris was still playing along with the game – why hadn't he given up already?

"It's fine if you don't want to answer. I understand. I can imagine everything's been a bit hard on you," Toris continued.

 _It has,_ Ivan wanted to say. _More than you'll ever know. So, so much more._

"I know it's not much, but I truly am sorry for everything you were put through. I…I didn't think it was this bad, though. I thought you would've said something to me by now. You haven't said a word, and it's starting to scare me."

 _I can't bring myself to face you._

"Don't let whatever happened get to you. I know it was about us, because the commandant talked to me about it," Toris said. "He was a little surprised, to say the least. I don't know how anyone would ever think we're secret lovers or something. I'm too scared to do anything like that, and you, I don't think you're honestly in love with me like everyone else thinks."

 _At least one of us is smart enough to figure that out. I can't ever see myself loving you. You're too good for anyone to love._

"I could be wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things. Like Feliks. I keep making those figures for him and writing letters, and what if I come back and he's not even there? He's blond, sure, but he's a Pole. Blond hair doesn't protect you from everything. He's done a lot of bad in his life, more than you would think. He's a rebellious person, sir. He's probably with some partisan group. He's probably dead. And here I am, writing letters to a man who could very well be dead and telling myself he's fine."

 _I wish I could tell you he isn't dead. I don't know, though. You could be right._

"Maybe he'll be there when I come home," Toris said all too wishfully. "You should meet Feliks, sir. You'd love him. Oh, God, sorry, not in the sexual sense. I wasn't even thinking. You would like him. He's a nice person, one of those easy to talk to people. Kind of on the dumb side – other than that, he's wonderful."

 _He sounds perfect for you._

"I don't even know if you're awake anymore and I keep talking. I'm so hopeless. Ivan, if you can hear me, I don't have much against you. I honestly don't. You have your flaws, and so does Feliks. And I couldn't live without the both of you. So keep that in mind. Or don't, you know, if you're asleep and I'm just talking out loud. So, um, good night."

"Do you mean it?" Ivan asked so suddenly he couldn't stop himself. "You don't hate me?"

"Oh, my God, you were awake?" Toris said, his voice much more unsteady than it was moments ago.

"You really don't hate me?"

"Everything I said was honest. I don't hate you," Toris replied. "I may get mad with you, but who doesn't get mad at you – I mean, who doesn't get mad at people? I w-w-wasn't trying to say th-th-that everyone gets mad at you, e-e-even though a lot of people do. Oh, that's n-n-not what I meant at all."

"I understand. Still, aren't you mad at me?" Ivan said. How could anyone forgive that?

"N-n-no! You haven't d-d-done anything wrong!"

"Toris, I sent your parents to the gulags."

Toris fell silent for a moment. Ivan cursed himself, knowing he'd brought up the wrong thing. If Toris didn't want him dead before, he wanted him dead now.

"Maybe i-i-it was meant to be. Th-th-the way I see it, everything happens f-f-for a reason. Who knows, my…m-m-my parents could've b-b-been involved in s-s-something else a-a-and you did save me. I'd heard them t-t-talking before about wars and things," Toris choked, sounding on the verge of tears. "Are y-y-you trying to make me mad at you?"

"You should hate me. You should," Ivan said. "I ruined everything for you! I basically murdered your parents! I held you against your will! I forced you into the military! For God's sake, I make you sleep with me! You should have tried to kill me already!"

"I s-s-should've. I can't do it, th-th-though. Th-th-there might be some g-g-good to come out of this."

"What _good_ can you find in some gay, sex crazed demon?"

"I don't know," Toris said in a much calmer voice. "What I do know is that you aren't a gay, sex crazed demon, sir. You're kind and responsible and hilarious and occasionally irritating; who isn't? If you were the person the Gestapo made you out to be, you wouldn't have bothered with my family. You would've taken me away from my home. You would've kept me locked up somewhere, tied to a bed. Would've made me nothing more than a toy. Forced me into a lot more than just the army. Then I would have reason to hate you. And sure, we had a bit of a rough time –"

"This whole thing has been a 'rough time,'" Ivan interrupted.

"So what? We're both fine right now, and that's what matters. No one is dead, no one is dying, and we still have each other."

* * *

"Is this going to become an everyday thing? If so, I might as well make him his own room."

"I'm sorry, I honestly did try to take him home. But he has that Gestapo man living next to him. Something's not right about that one. And my house is no place for a drunk man."

"And mine is?"

"That's not what I was saying."

Lilli tied a red ribbon on the end of her braid, listening to Basch and Francis talk over each other. They always got into fights in the morning over just about anything. She could judge how secret an argument was by what language was being spoken – German was for petty fights, French was serious, and Italian meant no one except them should hear it. Very rarely did arguments reach Italian levels of importance. This one was in German, although it had switched to French a few times.

"Shut up for a second," she heard Basch say, although his tone was much more joking now. "Hey, Lilli, are you ready yet?" he called. "I need you to do me a favour before you go to school."

 _What is he talking about?_ Lilli thought as she got up. _He never wants me to do anything. Did I do something wrong?_

She took a final look in the broken mirror, wishing Basch hadn't gotten so angry and punched the glass. It was hard to make herself presentable looking into a spider web.

"Don't forget you have a Hell Child meeting today," Francis added. "Because God forbid you miss one of those."

"Since when do you care about Lilli's life?" Basch growled.

"I happened to look at the calendar and though she might need reminding. September 22nd, 1941. HC Meeting. "

"Don't worry, I remembered!" Lilli assured them, smoothing out the navy skirt of her Hell Child – otherwise known as _Bund Deutscher Mädel_ – uniform.

Lilli wasn't allowed to voice her opinion about the uniform – no one was – but she absolutely detested it. The _Bund Deutscher Mädel_ had very different ideas than Lilli, including their tastes in fashion. If she had a choice, she wouldn't be wearing their sailor-esque uniform to school. The Nazis must've realized girls like Lilli existed early on, as it was now required for every girl to be in the BDM, save for the few _Untermensch._

 _Who are they to tell me what to do? I'm my own person. Say I don't want to grow up to have a bunch of German children like I'm supposed to? Can they make me get married?_

 _Yes. They can make anyone do anything._

"Lilli? Are you coming?" Basch called again.

"Oh, sorry!" Lilli made a final check before turning away from the mirror. She didn't want to go back to school. She wanted to stay with Basch and help him with the plans for moving another family to Switzerland, not be told all the things she should be doing as a good German.

" _Guten Morgen,_ " Basch said, giving Lilli a tired smile. "Are you ready to go back to school?"

"I don't want to go."

"I know. If it were up to me, I'd keep you far away from that propaganda bullshit. All that would do would be give the Gestapo one more reason to arrest me."

"Don't you have a friend you miss?" Francis asked.

Lilli thought for a moment, trying to come up with at least one person she wanted to talk to. "No. I hate everyone."

" _Mon Dieu_ , she sounds like you, Basch," Francis said with a hint of laughter. His French accent was much thicker than usual, slurring his words together. "What have you been teaching this girl?"

"The right things, obviously. So, Lilli, I've got a challenge for you. I have a package that needs to be taken to Mathias. I want you to take Roderich with you." Basch was surprisingly calm as he spoke. "Of course, this means you have to wake Roderich up."

It took Lilli a second to register everything Basch said. He _wanted_ Lilli to actually do something dangerous? What happened to protecting her at all costs? Not that Lilli was complaining – she loved that Basch cared so much about her – however, he never let her deliver plans.

"Are you serious?" was the one thing Lilli could ask.

"Absolutely. You're fourteen, old enough to make your own decisions. I can't keep you safe forever. And besides, the plans are coded in both English code and Italian. The Gestapo can't crack that," Basch added, his voice giving away how afraid he really was. "Just be careful. Don't go looking for trouble."

Lilli didn't know how to respond. Basch was finally trusting her – what was there to say? She went over to her big brother, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thank you, thank you so much."

"Don't get too excited. It's only a test run for you two. If you do good, I might consider letting you run some more stuff for me," he said with a grin. "You better hurry up if you want to get to school on time. Roderich isn't going to be easy to wake up."

"What do you mean by waking him up? Do you want me to go to his house?"

"He's here, in the living room," Francis said before Basch could. "I brought him to your house last night. Be gentle when you wake him up, alright?"

"What's wrong with him?" Lilli asked.

"He's hungover and probably not in a cooperative mood," Basch muttered. "Serves him right."

"Basch, please –" Francis started.

"Francis, please. I am not doing this every damn time he decides to go drink himself senseless. He's got to learn."

"Learn what? You can't make an alcoholic stop drinking like that," Francis said, snapping his fingers to emphasize "that".

Basch put a hand in his jacket, pulling out a pistol and examining it. "I have my ways."

"We are _not_ going to hold him at gunpoint," Francis snapped. "We can work this out in a better way than violence."

 _"Travailler sur vos divorces sans violence n'a pas si bien passé, il a? Que faites-vous maintenant, sept?"_ Basch asked, tucking the gun back in his pocket.

" _Il est seulement six, salaud."_

The two slipped into fast French, leaving Lilli clueless. She knew it had to do with Francis' divorces, but she couldn't understand much more. Lilli left the two to fight it out, going into the living room that served as Basch's office. Instead of the typical furnishings, the room held a desk, file cabinets, and plenty of gun parts in boxes along the walls. And just as Francis said, Roderich was asleep on the couch with an old blanket draped over him.

"Herr von Wolffe, you need to get up now," Lilli said in a soft voice, giving Roderich a few encouraging nudges. "You have to help me with some underground things and take me to school."

Roderich turned away from Lilli, pulling the blanket closer. This was going to be tougher than she thought.

"Please get up. My brother isn't very happy with you this morning. He's already said he was going to hold you at gunpoint," she said.

"Let him," Roderich mumbled. "I feel dead anyway."

"Don't make me take the blanket from you."

"What, are you my parent now? I'm the adult here."

"You're not acting like it," Lilli said, crossing her arms. "Be an adult and get up."

Roderich looked back at Lilli with bloodshot indigo eyes. "You know what? I'm not acting like an adult. I don't care because I'm hungover and wish I was dead. If I want to act like I'm seven, who cares?"

"Herr von Wolffe…"

"You don't understand how bad this feels. You're what, thirteen? Walk to school by yourself. _Gute Nacht_ , Lilli."

Lilli sighed – she had hoped she wouldn't have to turn to her last resort. She went over to the window, grabbing the edge of the curtain. "Herr von Wolffe, you have three seconds to get up before I open the windows."

"Don't you dare," Roderich snarled, pulling the blanket over his head.

"One."

"I swear to God, Lilli –"

"Two."

"I'll kill you –"

"Two and a half." Lilli pulled back the curtains enough that a sliver of light poured through the dirty glass.

" _Fine!_ I'm up!" Roderich sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. "Don't open the curtains, please."

"Thank you."

"You're a twisted girl. I thought you were a good one," Roderich growled, grabbing his glasses from the end table. "Is that what the Nazis are teaching you in school, to torture innocent musicians?"

"I'm simply using my resources," Lilli said, going out into the kitchen. "Come on, we have work to do."

"I see you're feeling well," Basch said as Roderich stumbled into the kitchen and sank into one of the chairs.

"Thanks for kidnapping me again," Roderich muttered, putting his head down on the table. "I needed that in my life. Why don't you actually take me back to my own damn house?"

"Gestapo," Francis answered. He wasn't as lighthearted as he was earlier – Basch must've won the divorce argument.

"Why don't you let them arrest me?"

"You may have some use left in you," Basch said. "After you get over this alcohol problem."

"It's not a problem," Roderich said, looking up at Basch.

"On average, you're drunk three nights out of the week. That's not a problem?" Francis asked. "What is a problem to you?"

"What I'm doing isn't…It's different…" Roderich faltered, knowing there wasn't any way to answer this. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Francis, I'm hungover! I can't think of an answer, but I don't have a problem!"

"The first step is always denial," Basch reminded him.

"So maybe it's a slight problem. Not a serious one like you two are insinuating."

Basch shook his head, grabbing a box from under the table. "This," he said, putting it in front of Roderich, "is your first ever delivery."

"Joy," Roderich snapped, pushing the box away from him.

"It also happens to be Lilli's first delivery. Don't screw it up. All I want you to do is take it to Mathias. Don't go looking for the Gestapo, don't open the box, don't do anything stupid. If the Gestapo does stop you, deny everything. You seem to be rather good at that."

"It's not a problem."

* * *

 **A/N: Lots of history notes this time around, so I'm not going to waste any time.**

 **Alfred's story: When WWII started up, many Americans were eager to join the war. However, America wasn't too fond of the idea of jumping into foreign affairs again. The Neutrality Act of 1935 was supposed to keep Americans from going to Canada and signing up for "illegal" warfare. In comes Colonel Charles Sweeny, America's mercenary. When the Nazis invaded Poland, Sweeny started organizing a group of American pilots willing to fight. He set up a secret network to get pilots to France before he left for Europe himself. The rest follows along with Alfred's story. A few of the Americans were actually in the Battle of Britain as illegal pilots. If you want more on this, the book** _ **The Few**_ **by Alex Kershaw is wonderful.**

 **Walther P38: A 9 mm semi-automatic pistol used by the Wehrmacht. It was made to replace the expensive Luger P08. I don't know if any of you guys shoot guns; these little pistols are fun.**

 **Kübelwagen: Basically Nazi Germany's version of the Jeep. Designed by Ferdinand Porsche and built by Volkswagen. Used pretty much everywhere thanks to its air cooled engine.**

 **Bund Deutscher Mädel: The female equivalent of the Hitler Youth (Hitlerjugend). Founded in 1930, this organization prepared girls to be the perfect wife and mother. Every eligible girl was required to be in the BDM as of 1933. Most of their training was the typical Home Economics things; sewing, cooking, etc. but on Saturdays they did do the physical training associated with the Hitler Youth. The importance of self-sacrifice was heavily emphasized – die for Germany, do it for Germany, that sort of thing. Many girls were actually put into the Wehrmachtshelferin, where they helped to defend their cities as Flak Helpers, signal auxiliaries, searchlight operators, and office staff. They were also sent to Poland as part of the Germanisation, to help move out Poles and put more Germans in.**

 **Translations:**

 ** _Travailler sur vos divorces sans violence n'a pas si bien passé, il a? Que faites-vous maintenant, sept? -_ Working out your divorces without violence hasn't gone so well, has it? What are you on now, seven?**

 ** _Il est seulement six, salaud. -_ It's only six, you bastard.**

 **Thank you to** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** GoneInASecond **,** EllaAwkward **, and** Comix and Co **! You guys are wonderful!**

 **And could you wonderful beings do me a huge favour? I feel like I'm writing too much in each chapter and often worry about it. 8,000 words every single chapter is a lot. I have a poll on my profile, if you could do that, that'd be great. Sometimes I feel like people don't want to read this story because of all the words and how long it takes to read.**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	12. Inquieto

Snow swirled around Roderich's feet as he knocked on the door with peeling white paint. Lilli stood beside him, holding tight to a box full of maps, diagrams, important documents, and one pistol. Beneath her pink coat were more papers – they'd been unable to deliver things for a few weeks due to a surprising influx of Gestapo agents wandering the streets. It was a miracle they'd made it all the way to the back alley without being stopped.

From inside, Roderich could hear someone running downstairs. Mathias opened the door, his smile as bright as ever. He seemed to be oblivious to the winter weather, wearing a t-shirt and shorts like it was the middle of summer.

"Roderich, I found you a new wife," he said, sounding strangely proud of himself.

"…What?" Roderich asked, too startled to use formalities. "Do I even know this woman?"

"No. And she doesn't know you. That's why you're perfect!"

"Um, Herr Andersen, I don't know a lot of people, and that doesn't mean I should get married to them," Lilli said. "Maybe the two ought to meet first."

"Of course. Come on, Roderich, you'll love her." Mathias grabbed Roderich's wrist, leading him up the stairs to the apartment over the bar. The door was wide open, the hazy smell of smoke drifting out into the stairwell. Mathias shoved Roderich in front of him, pushing him into the all too familiar apartment.

Just by looking at the front room, anyone could tell Mathias and Lukas had extremely different personalities. It was easy to see that they'd split the room into their own territory, Lukas' being neat and organized, Mathias' being, for lack of a better word, a catastrophe. Lukas organized his books by colour and size, his desk was in order, and his half of the coffee table looked like it'd never seen dust. Mathias' side boasted an impressive amount of empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, pinup girl magazines, and disaster. And of course, his half of the coffee table was stacked high with sabotage plans written in Danish.

Roderich was so caught up on the chaotic order of everything that it took him a moment to notice Lukas, with his nose in a book of Norse gods. It took him another second to realize there was a woman sitting on the couch.

"Roderich, meet Fraulein Arlovskya," Mathias said, motioning to the woman. She glanced up at Roderich with indigo eyes strikingly similar to his own, studying him for a moment. Her platinum blond hair fell over her shoulders, blending in with the white fur of her stole. With her black dress and heels, she looked like a movie star, not a resistance member.

"I thought you said he was single. He has a daughter," the woman said in a thick Russian accent, gesturing to Lilli with her cigarette. "Not that I was interested."

"That's not his daughter," Lukas said, looking up at Roderich and Lilli.

" _Guten Abend_ , Fraulein Arlovskya. I'm Lilli Zwingli, Basch Zwingli's sister," Lilli said with a smile.

"I like her. Very cute." She got up, going over to Roderich. The woman did not smile, her dark red lips remaining in almost a frown, but not quite. She put her hand on Roderich's chest, running her fingers over the fabric of his coat. "And you are?"

"Roderich von Wolffe, it's a –"

Before Roderich knew what was going on, he was looking down the barrel of a Nagant. He heard the mechanical click of the gun being cocked, hoping this was some sort of Russian joke.

"Herr von Wolffe," Natalya repeated in her smooth voice. "Hitler's musician. You've worked with him for a long time." She pushed the barrel closer to Roderich's forehead. "Eight years. You make me sick, von Wolffe."

"I see you already know who he is," Mathias said much too calmly for the situation. "What you don't know is that he's part of Vienna's Angels with us, he's part Jewish, and he's an alcoholic."

"Any other degrading things you'd like to mention before she kills me?" Roderich asked, cursing himself for not carrying a gun. He never thought he'd run into an angry Russian woman.

"Alcoholic I can see," Natalya said, lowering the gun but still keeping it pointed at Roderich's chest. "Hitler's people are drunks, simple as that. However, he's in your little resistance? He's a Nazi, Mathias. A cold blooded murderer. And Jewish?" She grabbed Roderich's jaw, turning his head to the side. "Doesn't look like a Jew."

"Well, I am. Or rather, I was," Roderich snapped, pulling Natalya's hand away. "Believe me, I am nothing like what you'd expect me to be."

"So you abandon your religion out of fear? Pathetic."

"Says the one who tried to kill me before you even knew who I was."

Natalya nearly smiled as she slipped the revolver back into her dress. "I had good reason. Now, you have papers for me, yes?"

"I have them all, Fraulein," Lilli said, holding out the box. Natalya took it from her, watching as the young girl unbuttoned her rosy coat and handed another stack of papers to the woman.

"Thank you, dear," Natalya said in a dramatically softer voice. "You look good in that colour. Goes well with your eyes."

" _Danke_ ," Lilli replied, her face the same pink as her coat.

"So you'll compliment her, but you try to kill me?" Roderich dared to ask. "Lilli's got more Aryan in her than I do."

Natalya muttered something in her mother tongue, going back to the couch without answering. She pulled a knife from her purse, ripping open the package. Roderich wondered how many weapons the woman had on her at any given moment – perhaps even more than Basch.

"I'm sure you two will fall in love in a matter of days," Mathias said. "So what if it takes her some time to warm up to you? Natalya's only been in Vienna for five days, and she isn't too keen on, well…"

"Anyone," Lukas finished. Natalya nodded in silent agreement, taking a drag on her cigarette as she spread a map out over the table. Roderich remembered working on that one – Basch gave him a list of locations three pages long and told him to plot out every point precisely.

Mathias shrugged. "I think you two would be great together. I mean, you two are like the main characters in a romance novel. Natalya's the new girl, Roderich's the less-than-perfect man, there's tension between you two. Come on, just kiss already!"

"In your dreams," Natalya said. "I prefer a real man, not whatever fake thing he is. Are you sure he's a man?"

"How is she perfect for me?" Roderich growled, clenching a fistful of his coat. He'd put up with a lot of irritating people in his short lifetime; Natalya was already high on the list.

"She's just playing hard to get. Right, Nat?"

Natalya looked up from the map, glaring at Mathias. "Call me 'Nat' one more time and you'll end up like Fraulein von Wolffe over there. _Dead."_

"Come on, would you lighten up a bit?" Mathias asked. "I'm trying to be nice here."

"I'm not trying to be nice. I'm a fugitive. Fugitives aren't 'nice.'"

"She escaped from Russia," Lukas explained without looking up. "We're keeping her until Francis can make up some fake papers. Sorry, she's going to be staying in Vienna. We needed a member who could speak Russian. And she also has money."

"Oh, great, just when I was starting to get over being afraid for my life," Roderich said. "Now I'll have to worry about my safety again."

"I wouldn't worry about life if I were you," Natalya added. "I'd be worried about my death. I was trained in the NKVD, Herr von Wolffe. I know how to kill someone in twenty-nine different ways. And those are only clean murders. Who knows what I could do if I decided to get creative?"

"There is something seriously wrong with that woman," Roderich said in a low voice, wondering how Mathias had ever found her. Surely, she found him first. Mathias didn't go out looking for hell spawn like Natalya.

"I don't know, I think she's nice," Lilli said. "To me, anyway."

"I am so sorry you are in contact with Fraulein von Wolffe. Good girls don't deserve people like him," Natalya said, circling a town on the map in red ink. She scribbled something in Russian next to it before circling another town.

"As much as I'd like to stay here and have threats made on my life, I promised Basch we'd be back before nine," Roderich said. "So, _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Fraulein Arlovskya. I hope I never see your face again."

"How sweet. It's sad we will have to see each other again, you being the most powerful member of this resistance and me being the most affluent and manipulative. Good riddance, Fraulein von Wolffe," she said as she rubbed her cigarette out. Her eyes locked with Roderich's as she grinded the butt into the glass – was it some sort of metaphor for his death or was that woman insane?

Probably both.

"So maybe you're not connecting as well as I thought…" Mathias admitted sadly, rolling an empty beer bottle across the stained floor with his foot.

"You think?"

"Oh, wait, Fraulein von Wolffe," Natalya said, reaching into the box for something. She pulled out the pistol, tossing it to Roderich. "You should carry a gun with you. Like a real man."

"For God's sake, could you not throw a loaded gun at me? How do you know I don't already have one?" Roderich asked.

"You would've pulled it on me when I tried to kill you. That and I searched your pockets. And the gun isn't loaded. Empty."

"Oh, right, I forgot to tell you," Mathias said, "she has a bad habit of doing that. Took my keys the first time we met. And the second." He went over to a tiny closet, grabbing a handful of something from a box inside. "Here, you can have these," he said, handing Roderich a cluster of shiny bullets.

" _Danke_ ," Roderich said, pulling the clip out of the pistol. Mathias took it from him, shoving in as many bullets as it would allow and handing the rest to Roderich. He slapped the clip back into place, a wide grin on his face.

"We ought to test this gun, make sure Basch did a good job," he suggested. Before Roderich could ask what he meant by that, Mathias went over to the window above the couch, pushing open the glass. He brushed some of the snow off of the sill, and then fired two shots into the air. Almost immediately, Roderich heard angry cursing.

"Try and get me evicted, Burkhalter!" he shouted back. "That's right, you can't! You have no reason!" Mathias slid the glass back, holding up his middle finger as he handed the pistol back to Roderich. "That's our neighbour. He's not very fond of me, because I'm 'an immature man who shouldn't be allowed to have his own apartment.' He likes to scream a lot. I hadn't made him mad in a long time and I was starting to miss getting yelled at. Be careful walking by his house, alright?"

"I hope he shoots you, Fraulein von Wolffe. Lilli can live," Natalya said, unfolding a paper detailing the North Africa campaign. Again, she started circling things, writing messy Cyrillic over the page.

"Aren't you the sweetest woman in the whole world?"

"You should come by sometime and get acquainted with her," Mathias suggested. "You two really are a good match."

"I don't think you know what the word 'good' means," Roderich said, looking back at Natalya. She glared at him, her expression saying much more than any words could.

Mathias smiled nervously. "Natalya's a little…cold at first."

"Whatever you say," Roderich said, walking out of the apartment with Lilli close behind.

Roderich and Lilli stepped back out into the December night, neither of the two surprised to find it had started snowing again. Mathias mumbled a goodbye and a few more things about Natalya before shutting the door, leaving them all alone in the cold winds.

"He's very determined, Herr von Wolffe," Lilli said quietly, pressing closer to Roderich. "I don't think he can see how much Fraulein Arlovskya hates you."

"Mathias has always been a bit on the clueless side," Roderich replied as they turned the corner back to the main street.

Something was wrong.

The strip of beer halls and odd shops was always busy during the evenings, no matter what day. And at one time, there were people up and down the street, made evident by the countless footprints. Roderich could've sworn there was at least one person out when they slipped into the alley to go to Mathias and Lukas'. No, he knew there were people.

So why was the street completely empty?

At first, Roderich wondered if it was an air raid, until he remembered there weren't any sirens and the Brits weren't dumb enough to fly in a snowstorm. Then he thought it was another clear-out, where the Gestapo purged an area of anyone they didn't like, only there weren't any trucks or soldiers. After that, he ran out of reasons for everyone to disappear. It was almost like the city's inhabitants ceased to exist. There was no noise, no signs of life, absolutely nothing. It was Roderich, Lilli, and the snow.

"Herr von Wolffe…?" Lilli looked up at Roderich for an explanation.

"I…I honestly don't know what's going on," he said. "Whatever it is, we need to go home. _Now."_

Roderich forced himself to walk – he knew not to run. Running made people look more suspicious, and if there were people out there, he didn't want to draw any more attention than he already did. Basch had told him thousands of times to never run unless he was being chased, to always remain calm in the face of danger. _Easier said than done_ , Roderich thought.

He felt Lilli grab his hand, her cold fingers interlacing with his. She'd never been so scared that she looked to Roderich for comfort before, even when they'd been stopped by the Gestapo. Lilli looked up at him, her green eyes full of fear. If Roderich could have said something to calm her down, he would've. But he didn't know what to tell himself, never mind tell a young girl.

"What do you think happened?" Lilli asked in a small voice.

"I don't know," Roderich replied. He was starting to wonder if this was some sort of setup, a way to get him arrested. Was there something they weren't warned about, a curfew or one of the pointless drills the Nazis did? Roderich curled his finger over the trigger of the pistol, hoping to God there wasn't a Gestapo agent hidden away in the shadows.

They walked by a beer hall with the front door was slightly ajar, bits of muffled conversations floating out into the street. Roderich couldn't be happier to hear human voices – there were still people in the world. He caught the words _America_ , _Japan_ , and _pearl_ before they were too far away to hear.

"I think we're fine," Roderich said hesitantly. "I can't be for sure; I'm guessing America and Japan signed a treaty or something like that and everyone's making a big fuss over it."

"What if America joined the war?"

"I doubt they would. It's bad for their economy, never mind their image they're trying oh-so hard to keep up."

Lilli smiled, looking down at the dirty snow. "They are sort of self-centered."

"Self-centered? America believes it's the only country that should exist. According to them, all countries should be exactly like America," Roderich said. "I'd rather marry Natalya than be forced to speak English."

"Come on, you two are rather cute together," Lilli said, giving Roderich a playful nudge. "If you forget that Fraulein Arlovskya wants you dead."

"You sound like Mathias."

By the time the two came to Basch's doorstep, they weren't fearing for their lives anymore; they were laughing about America and Mathias and all the other ridiculous things the world had to offer. Lilli pushed open the door, stepping into her house. Roderich followed her, not surprised to see Francis sitting at the kitchen table with Basch. One of the two was always waiting for them when they returned, no matter how late.

"Did Mathias tell you?" Francis asked with a smile. He seemed happier than normal, if that was possible.

"Is this about why there wasn't anyone out tonight?" Roderich said as he sat down at the table with the two. "I swear to God, it was like everyone disappeared."

"Japan bombed Hawaii today. Some place called Pearl Harbor," Basch said with a hint of real excitement.

"So?" Lilli asked. "It's just an island."

"They have to join the war, Lilli. America has to. The Allies are going to win. The war's going to be over in less than a year."

* * *

"Toris, could a pheasant kill a stag if he really tried?"

Toris slammed the journal closed, looking up to find Raivis standing in front him. He'd been so focused on his latest letter to Feliks that he didn't even hear the boy come up to him. Sliding the book full of letters between the wall and the mattress, Toris sat up straight and pretended like nothing had happened. "Um…what was the question again?"

"Could a pheasant kill a stag?" Raivis said, holding up the carving of a pheasant Toris made.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"He got bored and made a colosseum for your carvings," Eduard answered before Raivis could, gesturing to the wooden animals and people scattered about the table. Raivis had set up sticks in a ring for the animals to fight in, and made benches out of two cigarette boxes for the fighters-to-be. It was rather childish for a fifteen-year-old boy. However, it _was_ a snow day, and snow days caused extreme boredom.

"I had the pheasant win against the stag, and Eduard told me it was impossible," Raivis said. "He's wrong, isn't he?"

"You're being a baby," Eduard said.

"I'm not being a baby."

"You're whining to Toris, who is literally your mom. That's being a baby."

"I am fifteen years old, which makes me almost an adult, so I can't be a baby."

"You're barely fifteen," Eduard reminded him. "Barely. And just because November 18th is the day you joined the army doesn't mean it's your birthday."

"I'm counting it as my birthday," Raivis said, crossing his arms.

"Who knows how old you truly are, though? You could be eight and think you're fifteen. Or maybe you're really seventeen." Eduard paused, looking over Raivis. "No, you're definitely eight."

"I know I'm fifteen. I was born in 1926 in Riga."

Eduard pushed up his glasses, giving Raivis the same look everyone gave Alfred when he did something stupid. "Prove it, then. Oh, wait you _can't._ No one has any records on you. As far as the government's concerned, you don't even exist. How do we know your name's Raivis? You could be a Juris or a Pjotrs."

"I know for sure my name is Raivis. That's what everyone's called me for my whole life." Raivis turned back to Toris. "Make him stop," he said like a child would, defeating his earlier point.

"Going right back to mother, are you?" Eduard asked.

"Make him stop!"

"Eduard, cut it out," Toris said, using his strict voice. "Leave him alone."

"And what's mother going to do about it? Run to father?" Eduard smiled, resting his head in his hands. "Go on, then. I'm sure father will be glad to see you. He's been locked in his room for months now." He nodded towards the door to Ivan's office.

"Stop."

"What? I'm telling the truth. You can't make me stop, but you know Colonel Braginsky can. You'll run right back to him like you always do."

"You don't know anything about us."

"I know just enough to make a good assumption."

"See? He doesn't stop," Raivis said, sitting down on the bed next to Toris. "You should go get Colonel."

"I'm not going to do what he wants." Toris clenched his hands into tight fists, reminding himself that Eduard was always looking for attention and fights. He surely didn't mean anything he said.

"You'll do what Colonel Braginsky wants," Eduard said a bit too suggestively.

"Will you _shut up?!"_

Eduard froze for a moment, startled by Toris' outburst. He'd never been screamed at, and certainly not by Toris. "Well, God, you don't have to get rude. I was only joking."

"It wasn't funny," Raivis said, glaring at the man.

"At least I'm not a bastard child," Eduard muttered, looking down at the table colosseum to hide his smile.

Raivis clenched his hands into tight fists, his face growing red. "That's n-n-not funny at all. I'm not a b-b-bastard child."

"Of course you're not," Toris said in a gentle voice, putting an arm around Raivis. The boy rested his head against Toris' shoulder, tears forming in his blue eyes. He buried his face in Toris' sweater, refusing to look at Eduard.

Toris never knew what to say when the insults went to the "bastard" level. He could say that Raivis wasn't an illegitimate son, even though it was lying, and that was about it. No one knew where Raivis came from. Raivis claimed he'd grown up in Riga; there were no records that mentioned his name. When Raivis was captured, Toris spent a week in the commandant's office, helping him translate Latvian birth records from around the time they guessed Raivis was born, but none of them listed a Raivis Galante. The boy seemed to have never been born.

"I remember th-th-there was someone," Raivis said. "I had s-s-someone. A w-w-woman, too."

"What did she look like?" Toris asked, although he'd heard the same story over and over again. It was Raivis' one defense that he truly did have a family, someone needed to listen.

"S-s-sort of like me. She was t-t-tiny, had blonde hair, a-a-and green eyes. She u-u-used to take care of me. B-b-but then she got sick."

"I'm sorry."

"And th-th-then I had t-t-to go work in the factory." Raivis ran his fingers over the scars on the back of his hand. "They're m-m-mean in factories. They made me fight. Wh-wh-whipped my hands i-i-if I wasn't fast enough," he choked, wiping at his tears with his scarred hands.

"You're here with me now, right? No one's going to hurt you anymore," Toris said. "You belong with us, Raivis. We're a family, and sometimes families fight."

"Don't pin the blame on me, he started it," Eduard snapped.

Toris glared at the man, silently telling him to stop. Eduard mumbled something in Estonian, looking back down at the table.

"Never mind Eduard. He's just looking for attention," Toris said, looking back at Eduard to make sure he wasn't trying anything else.

"I wish I had a mom," Raivis whispered, rubbing a scar that was larger than the others.

"Somewhere out there, you do have a mother."

"Named Toris," Eduard added.

Toris sighed, wishing Eduard knew when to stop. "And I'm sure she's a lovely person who wonders where her son is every day. You know, Eduard's mother was a real mean old lady. That's why Eduard turned out to be such a jackass."

"Really?" Raivis asked, looking up at Toris.

"Really. And you know what?" Toris took Raivis' hand, prying the little wooden pheasant from his fingers. "I think a pheasant could kill a deer if it tried hard enough," he said, looking over the figure. It was one of his older ones, rough around the edges and not quite as delicate looking as the newer carvings. He handed it back to Raivis. "Why don't you keep that one? I already have too many for Feliks."

"Thank you," Raivis said, running his thumb over the tiny bird. "He's my favourite one. Colonel Braginsky showed me how to catch pheasant when we were still in the same regiment. Before he ran away."

"He tends to do that."

Raivis nodded in agreement, going back to the table with Eduard. He picked up the stag from where he'd left it, starting the battle over again. Toris watched him for a moment to be sure Eduard wasn't going to try anything else, and then pulled his journal from its hiding place.

 _"It's hell here, Polski,"_ he wrote in his delicate cursive, picking up from where he'd abruptly left off. " _Absolute hell. But a sort of nice hell. What would you call it…purgatory? Whatever it is, I'm not quite sure if I hate it or accept it here in Stalag XVIII-A. Life's certainly strange in a POW camp. A few days ago, Hitler's musician, Roderich von Wolffe, was back here, asking to speak with our only American prisoner again. Why this man is so interested in swing music, I don't know. Anyway, Gilbert chased him off and had a long screaming match with said American prisoner._

 _"Sometimes, I wish you were here. I miss talking to you more than anything. You know how you never appreciate things until they're gone? I never realized how much you meant to me until I came here. You're the one I can trust with everything, and now I don't have anyone to tell my secrets. It's hard to keep so many things hidden from everyone. I'm managing as best as I can. I can't wait for this war to be over, and then I can come home and tell you everything and not have to worry about someone else hearing._

 _"Speaking of wars ending, have you heard what happened with America? Two days ago, the Japanese bombed one of their harbors in the Pacific, one in Hawaii called Pearl Harbor. Believe me, I know every detail. Three hours of nonstop patriotic ranting from our resident American, Alfred, has educated me more about the country than school ever did. Alfred says America's going to win this war, and soon._

 _"I hope he's right."_

* * *

"I heard someone saying the war'll be over by January," Hochstetter said as he pushed a red pin into the map of Vienna. Another one of Basch's "artworks" had been found painted on the side of a bakery, the man going so far as to sign the work with an illegible signature. Once again, they'd dragged Basch into Headquarters, beat him senseless, tried sodium pentothal for good measures, and weren't allowed to finish the arrest due to "lack of evidence."

"And let me guess, you believed them?" Ludwig asked. "How old was this person? Five?"

"I wasn't saying I believed them, I was saying that some people are thinking the war's going to be over soon. All I know for sure is that America's going to put up a helluva fight. They're pissed with Japan, so I don't think they're going to come after us for a long time. Hopefully when they do, the Reich can stop them."

"You say that like you doubt the power of our military," Ludwig said as he sealed an envelope full of old records and phone calls, along with a few odd papers Gilbert requested. His brother was getting impatient, asking for new information every week. Ever since Roderich started showing up at Stalag XVIII-A asking to speak with some of the prisoners, Gilbert was working faster than ever on finding out what was wrong with the man. Ludwig could care less.

"Maybe I do. I doubt almost everything, though. It's not just the Reich," Hochstetter replied. "And don't tell me you're not a tiny bit worried about America ruining the Fatherland. You worry about your dog."

"Berlitz is old, what if he hurts himself while I'm gone? That's a reasonable worry. America isn't. That's a country seven thousand kilometers away who doesn't care about destroying our country at the moment."

"Berlitz is a dog. Why should you worry about a dog? You can always get a new one."

"He's more than a dog to me. He's the only one I have left with me out of my small family."

Hochstetter sighed, sitting back down next to Ludwig. "You're such a kid, Beilschmidt. In a good way. I wish I was as naïve as you are. How the hell did an innocent man like you wind up in the Gestapo with a man like me?"

"You tell me," Ludwig said. "I'm here because it's what my father wanted me to do."

"See? You're such a good kid it hurts. The sole reason I joined the Gestapo was to piss my parents off, because they didn't want me working for the government. I was supposed to be a farmer for the rest of my life. I never imagined I'd be stuck working with a saint."

"Please, anyone who's part of this war can hardly be considered a saint. Sure, I'm better than you, but that doesn't make me that good."

"Whatever. Have you made any progress with von Wolffe?" Hochstetter asked, all too eager to change the subject. He didn't like to give Ludwig too many compliments, saying it would make him think someone actually liked him. Hochstetter wasn't big on helping self-confidence.

"Three months. Three months we've been working on this, and yet I've never caught him drunk," Ludwig admitted. "And I know he's been drinking, because I've stopped by his house several times while he was hungover. If we don't catch him by January, I'm going to start asking him to come drink with me."

"Shame he doesn't trust us enough for that to work," Hochstetter said. "And he doesn't have a confidant we can talk to?"

"We could try Christian Kleiner or Elizabeta Beilschmidt. Neither of the two seem willing to talk, though. It'd be a waste of time."

"Wouldn't Elizabeta want to tell us everything about her ex-husband?"

Ludwig shook his head. "I've tried talking with her before; she doesn't want to say anything about von Wolffe. I think she's still bitter over the divorce and doesn't want to even think of the man. Of course, she could be hiding something. However, there isn't anything to hide. Roderich von Wolffe is perfect. Everyone except my brother knows that."

"And Christian Kleiner is too loyal…" Hochstetter sighed again, putting his head down on the desk. "This is hopeless. Why don't we give up already and drop the case? We could pretend like it never happened, forget about Zwingli and move on with our lives."

"Are you saying we forget about the man who probably runs every one of the resistance movements in Europe?"

Hochstetter looked up at Ludwig. "Maybe we've been wrong about Zwingli this whole time. What if he is a normal man and we've been paranoid?"

"I can promise you he's not a normal man," Ludwig said. "He has more weapons than a whole army needs. And all the evidence we've ever gotten points to him. I know it's him, but he's good at covering up. Someday, we'll catch him off guard."

"After the war, I bet. I'll be, like, fifty-something, married, and have children by the time Basch finally makes a mistake."

"So what? We'll have caught him."

Hochstetter sat up straight again, blue eyes gleaming. "Let's catch him off guard right now. You know where his house is. Take me with you."

"…We're going to do what?" Ludwig asked. He was hoping he hadn't heard Hochstetter right – he wasn't really intending to go to Basch's house, was he?

"You said we have to find him when he's not prepared. He can't be more unprepared if we show up at his house without warning. Hell, von Wolffe may even be there! Genius, right?"

Ludwig didn't know how to respond to that. The idea itself was certainly a spur of the moment sort of thing, something Ludwig wasn't fond of. He preferred plans that had a basis to them, with a bit more thought put into them than Hochstetter's plans. The whole thing could crash and burn simply because Hochstetter didn't think about the different scenarios that could play out when Basch answered the door.

"Why did I ask you?" Hochstetter muttered, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. "Come on, Beilschmidt, even if we don't get anything out of it, it'll be fun!"

"What about this is going to make it fun?"

Hochstetter paused, not knowing how to answer. "Please come with me. What if we find out everything tonight? You'll feel really stupid because you didn't want to follow along with my plan."

"And what if you get shot?" Ludwig said. "I'll feel smart because I knew this plan was bad from the beginning. And I'll also be alive."

"Come on, kid, you've got to take some risks in your life."

"Getting shot by a madman is a risk most of humanity isn't willing to take."

"Well, then, I guess I'm not part of that 'most of humanity,'" Hochstetter said, pushing Ludwig's coat into his chest. He gave Ludwig a tiny smile, turning on his heels and heading out of the office. "Show me the way, Beilschmidt."

Somehow, Ludwig found himself walking to Basch's house with Hochstetter at nine p.m. Every bit of sense left in him was telling him to go home, to forget about the plan and go to bed. If only Hochstetter wasn't with him – Ludwig would've gone straight home and made up a lie about Basch the next morning. Hochstetter kept urging him forward, rambling on about pointless things and asking way too many questions. Ludwig just wanted to go home, and that clearly wasn't going to happen. Already he knew Basch was going to answer the door with a loaded gun, if he even answered. Who was to say he wouldn't shoot?

The things Ludwig did for the sake of the Gestapo were going to kill him someday.

"Are we almost there yet?" Hochstetter asked. Ludwig took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to shout.

"Yes."

"Why the hell did you walk to work today?"

Ludwig turned to look at the man. "You could've taken your car. You do realize you're going to have to walk back, don't you?"

"Oh, God, you're right." Hochstetter stopped, realizing what he'd done. He kicked at a clump of snow, muttering profanities. Ludwig couldn't resist a smile, happy to see Hochstetter lose his obnoxious cheer.

"It's not my fault you didn't think," Ludwig said. "There's Basch's house, go do whatever it is that you wanted to do." He gestured to the tiny house, looking back at Hochstetter. His grin was gone, arms crossed like a child.

"Come up to the door with me, we're more intimidating together," Hochstetter ordered, walking up to Basch's front door. Ludwig had no choice but to follow.

"…think drinking in my damn house is acceptable?" he heard Basch shout when he was close enough – the man was livid. "I've put up with the music and cigarettes, however, I'm drawing the line right here. You're not dragging your alcohol in here as well! I already put up with drunk Roderich more than I would like! I have work to do in the morning, I can't keep babysitting you whenever Francis finds you passed out somewhere!"

"You can't even get drunk on brandy. And it's not like I'm offering it to Lilli," Roderich said, much calmer than Basch was.

Hochstetter glanced at Ludwig with an I-told-you-so look.

"Calm down," a different, refined voice said. Ludwig vaguely remembered the voice, assuming it was Christian Kleiner's. "I'm helping him drink it, so it isn't like he's drinking a whole bottle of brandy by himself."

"Of course _you're_ fine with this, Francis. You don't care what goes on in this house, because it isn't yours. You're probably a closet alcoholic," Basch snapped. "Don't act like you're going to stop a drunkard from drinking."

Who was Francis?

Hochstetter had the same idea, looking at Ludwig for an explanation. Ludwig couldn't answer – he'd never heard of a Francis before. There was no one named Francis in Basch's impressive repertoire of contacts. Basch seemed to be referring to Christian as Francis, which raised more questions. Was it some sort of family joke, something that wouldn't be down on record?

No, Ludwig knew there was something more to the name. He'd studied Christian's whole life, listened to all of his phone calls, and there was never any mention of that nickname. There was something about that name – like Roderich's last name – that felt wrong. There was more to the story than just a name.

"It's the only way I can edit music, too," Roderich said. "You can't review something sober. And with the type of work I'm doing, I have to take as much pressure off as I can. I'm performing for Himmler tomorrow and this piece isn't perfect yet."

"Big deal. You either put that away or you get out of my house right now. I don't care if Himmler strangles you. No, I'd like that."

"I guess I'm leaving, then. I'll see you tomorrow before I leave for Berlin."

"And don't you dare go home and get drunk," Basch snarled. "You've got a date with Natalya at whatever fancy hotel they don't let people like me into."

"It's called Hotel Sacher, not that _you_ would know."

"Because I haven't wasted my life with a bunch of damn Nazis! I may not have class, but I'm also not going straight to hell!"

"I've got an idea," Hochstetter whispered, stepping away from the door. He motioned for Ludwig to come with him, flashing a grin as reassurance.

"What are we doing?" Ludwig asked as Hochstetter led him farther from Basch's house. "I thought we were going to catch Basch off guard."

"We were. But now they've got me curious as to who this Francis person is. You go back to Headquarters and pull up every paper you can find on Christian. I've got a few questions to ask."

* * *

Three soft knocks broke the silence of Ivan's office, so quiet that he wouldn't have heard them if he hadn't been waiting for them. He got up from his bed, putting the wolf carving back on his desk. The watches lined up along the edge read several different times – it was either 1:00, 2:17, 6:30, or 11:29. Ivan never could set watches right. He figured it was closer to 1:00, as the electricity had been out for a long time and the guards had changed minutes ago.

Whatever time it was, there was only one person in the whole stalag brave enough to talk to Ivan after lights-out.

Ivan wrapped his scarf around his neck, trying to collect his thoughts before he spoke to Toris. The last time the two had a conversation was back in September, when Ivan was locked up in solitary confinement. After that, he'd avoided everyone, staying in his office and coming out when he had to. Toris didn't try to talk to Ivan anymore – until now. Ivan had been patiently waiting for him to make the first move, hoping their relationship wasn't entirely severed.

" _Privet, malyshka,"_ Ivan said as he opened the door.

He wasn't expecting Elizabeta to be standing there in a silky nightgown and robe.

"What are –" Ivan was cut short as Elizabeta put a hand over his mouth, stepping into the office. She closed the door behind her before looking up at Ivan, examining the man before her.

Thousands of things came to mind in that moment. Was Elizabeta going to set him up for something, ask for help, demand information about the latest escape attempt? Or was she working for her husband, doing some sort of investigation into why Ivan hadn't been the same since September? Even thoughts of a secret love confession weren't out of the question.

"I need to talk with you about some things," she whispered, which clarified absolutely nothing. "Privately. Promise you won't say a word about this to anyone else, especially Gilbert?"

Ivan nodded, too confused to do anything else. Elizabeta slowly took her hand away, still not quite trusting the man.

"What do you have to tell me that's so important you come all the way here in the middle of the night?" Ivan asked, going back to his bed. He sat down on the edge, watching as Elizabeta took in the chaos that was his office. She went over to his desk, looking over the countless papers and books.

"You might want to start hiding these," she said, holding up vague escape plans Ivan had written out the night before with help from Alfred, their escape artist. "Gilbert is fluent in Russian, as am I."

"They're not serious. I was intending to use them to throw you off track when the real escape happened, and now I can't. And what's it to you if I get caught?"

"You're rather fond of solitary confinement, aren't you?"

Ivan smiled to himself. "I live for trouble. Did you just come here to tell me that I should hide my escape plans?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you about Roderich," she said, turning to face the man. Her expression had softened, the woman looking down at the floor instead of at Ivan.

 _So that's what this is about._

"Are you realizing you made a mistake marrying the commandant?" Ivan asked. "I saw you talking to Roderich the last time he was here. You looked rather close with him. I hope you're not going into another affair."

Ivan could see Elizabeta's face go red in the pale moonlight. "Don't talk about that. We were discussing who has rights to what, because he thinks he owns everything. It wasn't anything like what you're suggesting. Believe me, I am so over him."

"I don't know, you looked –"

"This isn't about my past marriage," Elizabeta interrupted. "I could care less about my relationship with him. I wanted to talk to you about Roderich's…religion."

Ivan tensed up at the mention of the word. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't try to lie to me. You know better than I do that he's Jewish."

"Really? I had no idea. Is this one of your husband's theories?"

"Ivan," Elizabeta said, going over to the man. "Stop it. I know for a fact that his name isn't even von Wolffe. It's Edelstein."

"…You're going to go to the Gestapo, aren't you?" Ivan asked, already coming up with plans for a quick and easy murder and escape. He had the knife tucked in the heel of his boot, and a nine millimeter pistol somewhere underneath his bed – it didn't even have to be a clean kill. All he needed was a diversion and he'd be out of Austria.

Just like every other time he'd had to off someone, Ivan would be gone before anyone noticed.

"Good God, I wouldn't ever do something like that," Elizabeta said, sitting down beside Ivan.

"And I wouldn't dream of causing trouble. Come on, stop trying to lie to me. You hate him and you want him dead, don't you? So you're either going to tell the commandant or go to the Gestapo and have him shot," Ivan snapped. "You're a cruel person to use Roderich like that."

Elizabeta held up her hands in a show of innocence. "I don't want anything bad to happen to him. Yes, I am slightly upset about the divorce and the events leading up to it. That doesn't mean I want him dead. I'm trying to protect Roderich."

"Prove it," Ivan said.

"You've been in contact with a man named Francis Bonnefoy, correct? He also goes by Christian Kleiner," Elizabeta said. "I've known him for a long time. He's been talking to me ever since the divorce about Roderich. Francis is the one who got me into this; if something goes wrong, I'm part of the plan to get Roderich to Switzerland."

"You're good, getting Francis to trust you. However, I'm not quite so easy to manipulate."

"Please, Ivan, you've got to believe me on this one. I came here to make sure you and I were on the same page with this. I wanted to know if you had intents of telling Gilbert about Roderich, because I never can be sure with you."

"We made a promise," Ivan said, folding his arms over his chest. "I cannot tell the commandant anything, even if I wanted to. You, however, are free to do as you want. Which makes you a threat to my promise. Therefore, I might have to do something I regret for Roderich's sake."

Elizabeta sighed, running her fingers through her thick hair. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?"

"There's nothing you can do. It'll take time. Keep up your end of all of this and I might start to believe you. However, if I hear so much as a word about Roderich, it's over. Your pistol isn't the only one I have in my collection," Ivan said.

"So you'd kill me?" Elizabeta asked with a half-hearted laugh. "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"

"Considering what you could and have done to Roderich, I don't see it harsh at all."

"Fair enough. And could I have my pistol back?" she said.

"I would let you have it back, but you're the enemy," Ivan said. "Sorry, it's the rules of war."

"There are no rules in war."

"There has to be a few. And I'm sure not arming the enemy is one of them."

"If you say so. Listen, I've got to go back before someone gets suspicious," she said, going over to the door. "If you ever need to talk to me about this all, come get me. I'm more than glad to talk out terms with you that don't involve my death."

"I'm not supposed to talk to the enemy."

Elizabeta smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Enemy or not, I'm serious. And if you just need someone to talk to, I'm always here. Something's been wrong with you for the past couple of months. I'd be willing to listen."

"No, I'm fine," Ivan said too quickly, the words slurring into one. "I've always been fine."

"Suit yourself. _Gute Nacht_ , Ivan," she said.

In that moment, Ivan saw her true colours. Elizabeta was scared, and not just for Roderich's sake. She was worried about Ivan, much more so than her words let on. Underneath all the Nazism and backstabbing, Elizabeta was a real person, a real person who cared for Ivan's sanity. Ivan could tell that she wanted to say something that she truly meant – and he did, too. He wanted to tell her the whole story, to tell her about the nightmares and the pain and the feeling that maybe he was supposed to be dead.

He wanted her to _stay._

Ivan watched Elizabeta leave, not knowing how to feel about anything.

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Nagant – Technically the Nagant M1895, this revolver was designed by Léon Nagant for the Imperial Russian Army in 1895. It carried over into the Red Army, where it stayed in service until 1952. The pistol never truly died out, as it kept being used until 2009.**

 **NKVD – The Soviet Secret Police, responsible for the deaths of millions. They were brutal, executing anyone who they had reason to believe was doing something wrong. There are mass graves everywhere because of the NKVD. Headed by Yevgeny Tuchkov, they were also responsible for the destruction of religion and ethnic minorities in the USSR.**

 **Pearl Harbor – On December 7** **th** **, 1941, 7:48 a.m. (which is 6:48 p.m. in Vienna) Japanese planes launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor in Oahu, Hawaii. It killed 2,403 people and wounded over 1,000, ruining and damaging hundreds of planes and sinking several battleships. The attack on Pearl Harbor marked the entrance of America into WWII. On December 8** **th** **, America declared war on Japan. By December 11** **th** **, both Germany and Italy declared war on America. There were actually Japanese diplomats in Washington D.C. when the attacks happened, who were exchanged for American diplomats in Japan. All in all, Pearl Harbor is "a day that will live in infamy" for Americans.**

 **Son of the regiment – Orphans like Raivis were sometimes adopted into regiments, therefore the name "son of the regiment." They were mostly used to bring things to the soldiers like water and ammunition, but sometimes they did engage in actual combat, depending on age.**

 **Well, aren't you glad I have such happy history lessons here?**

 **Thank you to** idrinkwaterjuicesoda **,** Calvy **(we're in some deep doop now),** EllaAwkward **, and** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **! You guys are fabulous!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	13. Pesante

Six folders.

Fifty-nine different papers.

Hundreds of referrals to the name Christian Dietrich Kleiner.

Four hours spent half-awake, patiently waiting.

Ludwig rubbed his eyes yet again, forcing himself to stay awake. Falling asleep could be dangerous and quite possibly cost him his job if someone besides Hochstetter found him. Already he'd tried reading through Christian's files, organizing a bookshelf, and sorting through the copious amounts of "confiscated" items to keep himself conscious. His office was much cleaner than when he'd started, but now he was out of things to do.

What could Hochstetter possibly have done for four hours? Ludwig knew it didn't take that long to ask a few questions and come back to Headquarters. Unless he was doing a serious interrogation with Christian, there was no reason for him to be gone so long. Knowing Hochstetter, he'd gotten an answer, forgot about it, bought a beer somewhere, met a girl, and Ludwig wasn't going to see him for a week. He'd vanished like that in the past, coming back to work seven days later and acting like nothing had ever happened. _Something_ happened on those mysterious disappearances, and the red lipstick on his collar told the story better than Hochstetter could.

" _I'll be back in like, twenty minutes,"_ Ludwig said to himself, mocking Hochstetter's upbeat voice. "As if. I should've known better than to believe him. This is one of his damn jokes, isn't it? He set up this whole thing to make me suffer. I've got to show up for real work in five hours – I can't keep wasting my life waiting for someone who I almost know isn't going to come."

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, considering how bad it would be to leave. It wasn't anywhere near the level of misery Hochstetter put him in on a weekly basis, so Ludwig figured leaving wasn't too bad. There were plenty of worse things he could do.

And just as Ludwig grabbed his coat, he heard the jangle of keys. His immediate thought was that one of the temporary prisoners had gotten hold of the keys – until he realized the keys were on his desk. Soon there were footsteps echoing throughout the hall, a familiar voice shouting Ludwig's name. The office door was throw open, Hochstetter stumbling in. He fell back against the wall, gasping for air.

"What's Christian's middle name?" he managed to say in between gasps, looking over at Ludwig. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his red armband missing and shirt partially undone. Just as Ludwig expected.

"I spent four hours here, and all you have to say to me is one question you damn well know the answer to? I have plenty of questions myself."

"What's his middle name?"

"Where even were you?" Ludwig continued. "How much have you had to drink? What's the name of your new sweetheart? When am I going to see you again?"

"Please, Ludwig, I know what you're thinking. If I were you, I'd be thinking the same thing. If you'd tell me his middle name, I'll explain everything," Hochstetter said, wiping the sweat off of his forehead.

Ludwig resisted the urge to start lecturing the man about his inconsideration, instead trying to seem as calm as possible. "You know his middle name is Dietrich. However, I have reason to believe you aren't sober or in the right mindset, so I can't blame you for not remembering. Tell me what happened."

"His middle name isn't Dietrich."

"Seriously, how much did you drink?"

"No, I'm not joking. His middle name isn't Dietrich," Hochstetter said.

"Yes, it is." Ludwig opened one of the files with a _snap_. "Full name: Kleiner, Christian Dietrich," he read aloud, looking over at Hochstetter. "Give me one good reason to believe whatever lie you're going to tell me."

Hochstetter came over and sat down in front of him, bearing a grin Ludwig wanted to rip off of his face. "Christian told me his middle name was Francis, not Dietrich," he said. "I knew that he was lying, so I asked to see his papers. I swear to God, they said Christian Francis Kleiner. Someone here is wrong, and it certainly isn't us."

"If that's the only thing you learned, tell me why it took you four hours to get here."

"Christian invited me to get acquainted with him, and we went to his apartment in the inner city. While he was on the phone with someone, I checked through most of his papers, and every one that had his full name on it said Christian Francis Kleiner. It was like the name Dietrich didn't exist. And, ja, I did drink with him. Not as much as you're implying, though."

"What happened to your shirt and armband, then? I presume Christian didn't do that to you," Ludwig said. "Or is there something else I should know about before you go hide away in your own little Berchtesgaden with Christian?"

"Oh, that?" Hochstetter smiled again as he buttoned his shirt back up. "Christian has this boss with a cute secretary who stopped by, and she was rather interested in a charming Gestapo man. While Christian and whoever the guy was talked in some other language –"

"Do you know what language?"

Hochstetter shrugged. "Probably French or Italian. What does it matter? Anyway, this girl couldn't keep her hands off of me. I tried to stop her, I promise. And then I had a few more drinks with Christian and ran all the way back here to tell you everything. I didn't even get the girl's phone number. Or her name."

"And you're a higher rank than me, _kriminalkomissionar?"_ Ludwig asked. "My dog could tell that Christian set you up. I ought to be in your spot."

"…What do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? Christian's got history we don't know about, and he's trying to cover it. I highly doubt his real name is even Christian. He must've had a plan set up in case this happened, like any smart man would. Which is why he allowed you to look through his papers with the phone call, boozed you up, and sent in a woman. Because he knows your type too damn well. You should've sent me to ask the questions. I would've gotten the full story and an arrest."

"That's kind of harsh," Hochstetter muttered.

"I waited here for four hours for you to tell me you fell for Christian's trap." Ludwig got up, pulling his coat on. "I thought you were going to come back with something useful. Who knows, maybe when you've got a clear head, you'll remember something worthwhile. _Gute Nacht_ , sir. I'm _honoured_ to work under such an intelligent man like you."

"It was an honest mistake anyone could make. Don't act like you would've done better in the situation," Hochstetter snapped.

"I would've. You would see Christian locked up in one of those cells right now if I had gone."

"Who's to say we don't have our records wrong?" Hochstetter said. "Maybe Christian was telling the truth and you're just paranoid like your brother."

"Are you seriously siding with Christian? God, you're such an…You know what, I am paranoid. Which is a good thing, because then I don't go trusting every person I come across," Ludwig said, walking out of the office.

"Oh, please. Everyone knows you're the weak link here. You may not trust people as well as I do. Your problem is that you won't hurt them. I could've killed Christian so many times tonight, and you wouldn't have even thought about it."

"Because I'm not a murderer like the rest of you. I have a sense of what's right and wrong."

"You're weak, kid! If you want to be in the Gestapo, you have to be able to shoot someone in the head without a second thought! If you killed someone, you'd cry about it to your big brother every night for the rest of your damn life. You already rely on him too much."

Ludwig turned on his heels, marching back into the office. He was used to shrugging passive-aggression with Hochstetter, used to forgetting sadistic comments, but he had to stand up for himself at some point. "You're horrible," Ludwig growled, grabbing the man by the collar. "Some days I wish I could kill you. I really wish I could put a bullet in your thick skull."

"Then do it right here." Hochstetter grabbed his gun, holding it up for the man. "Show me you've got the strength to do it. Put this gun to my head and pull the trigger."

"Are you trying to get me fired now?" Ludwig asked, pushing the pistol away from him. "You've probably got someone out there who's going to _conveniently_ come into the room while I have a gun at your head."

Hochstetter tore Ludwig's hand from his collar, pressing the Luger into his palm. "I can assure you there isn't anyone out there. Pull the trigger."

Ludwig held up the pistol, examining the scratched metal. How many lives had the Luger taken?

"Do it," Hochstetter urged. "I can almost guarantee the gun isn't loaded. Take a chance."

"You can almost guarantee?" Ludwig started to pull out the magazine when Hochstetter grabbed his wrist.

"Take a chance, kid. You've got to take some risks in your life, so do it," Hochstetter said. "I've lived a good life. This won't be such a bad ending."

Ludwig took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Hochstetter wouldn't be so eager to have him pull the trigger if the pistol was loaded, would he? With shaky hands, Ludwig cocked the gun and held it up to Hochstetter's forehead.

"Alright, you've got step one down," Hochstetter said too cheerfully for a murder victim-to-be. "It's only a two-step process. Now, pull the trigger."

Ludwig put his finger over the trigger.

"If that gun is loaded and this really is the end, you've got a train to catch at six, kid. Jump one to Switzerland and don't look back. I wouldn't stick around this shit town for longer than I have to. Go on, shoot me."

Ludwig wanted to prove that he wasn't scared. He honestly did. And knowing Hochstetter, the gun wasn't loaded. But he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger, not with the chance that the Luger was loaded. Ludwig didn't see a bloodthirsty criminal when he looked down at Hochstetter; he saw a guiltless man. He saw a man with a bright future. He saw a man with a story full of twists and turns that traced back to Berlin. He saw a man that was once a young mischievous boy with big dreams and stunning blue eyes.

And he couldn't take that away from Hochstetter. Ludwig couldn't end a story that hadn't finished.

"You can't do it," Hochstetter said slowly, a bit unsure of his words. "You cannot pull that trigger for the life of you."

"I'm choosing not to."

Hochstetter got up, giving Ludwig a look he'd often seen his father give Gilbert. He put a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, looking like he wanted to say something meaningful and couldn't.

And then he slammed Ludwig up against the wall.

It took a moment for the fantasy colours to clear from Ludwig's eyes – and then he noticed the two strong hands holding him in place. Hochstetter dug his thumbs under Ludwig's collarbone, grinning like a madman. A sharp pain spread across Ludwig's chest, and he held back a yelp. The innocence in Hochstetter was gone, replaced by the same murderous look Ludwig had seen in so many people. He wasn't guiltless.

He was insane like the rest of them.

"Can you shoot me now, kid?" he asked, moving his hands closer to Ludwig's throat. "Can you save your life?"

"You won't kill me, and I won't do the same to you," Ludwig snapped, pushing Hochstetter back.

Hochstetter put his hands around Ludwig's neck. "You won't raise that gun, not even when I have this much monopoly over you?" He tightened his grip, digging his nails into Ludwig's skin. "Put that gun to my head and pull the trigger and I'll stop. I don't care if it's a blank, I'll stop."

"What…are you…doing?" Ludwig gasped, trying to wrench Hochstetter's hands from his throat.

"I'm proving a point, kid! You don't have the strength to shoot someone."

Ludwig threw the pistol down, pushing Hochstetter off of him. The man staggered backwards, catching himself on the desk. And yet, he kept grinning. He took a step forward, approaching Ludwig like he was a wild animal. Hochstetter knelt down, grabbing his Luger.

"You couldn't do it," he said, standing upright again. Hochstetter held the gun up to his head, putting his finger over the trigger. "And look."

Ludwig screwed his eyes shut when he saw Hochstetter pull the trigger, awaiting a gunshot. All he heard was an empty _click._

"It's empty!" Hochstetter snapped. He cocked the gun again and pulled the trigger, Ludwig watching this time. There was no bang, no blood, no death.

"It doesn't make me any less of a person because I couldn't shoot you. If anything, you've changed my opinion about you," Ludwig said, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Seeing as you tried to choke me."

"Please, that wasn't anywhere near what choking was like." Hochstetter put the Luger down on the desk, coming over to Ludwig. Immediately, Ludwig held up his fists. He wasn't about to let Hochstetter win again.

"And you call yourself a _kriminalinspektor?"_ Hochstetter scoffed. "You're a joke, kid. A joke. You're no Gestapo prodigy like everyone's told you. Go back to whatever hell city you came from and don't think of showing up here ever again."

Ludwig didn't have time to think of a comeback – Hochstetter's fist connected with his cheekbone before he could say something.

* * *

Natalya almost broke character when Roderich walked into the room, hiding her hint of a smile with her opera gloved hand. "What took you so long?" she asked after she'd composed herself again, her dark red lips back in the almost-frown she wore.

"Some of us have lives outside of this," Roderich said, sitting down in a velvet chair across from Natalya. He put Marlene's case in his lap, attempting to look as professional as possible when he was mildly hungover and under too much stress for so early in the day. "Not that you would know about having a life."

"And you have one? You're an alcoholic, Fraulein von Wolffe. A drunk."

"Better than being a demon like you."

"Not by much," she said. "Now, come here. I have something to tell you that can't be said out loud."

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" Roderich said – it never hurt to ask, especially with a dangerous woman like Natalya.

"Believe me, if I was going to end your pathetic life, I would've done it already."

Roderich slowly got up, going over and sitting down beside the woman. He waited for the knife in his chest or a muted gunshot; thankfully, it never came. Still rather untrusting of Natalya, Roderich made sure to put Marlene as far away from her as possible.

"What, are you scared I might hurt your precious violin?" Natalya asked, twisting a stray strand of almost white hair around her finger in ironic innocence.

"Marlene is a Stradivarius, not just any violin," Roderich said. "And a gift from the Führer."

"You tell me I don't have a life, and you name your violins," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I have good news and bad news, Fraulein von Wolffe. What would you like me to tell you first?"

"Considering your personality, the good news is actually horrible and the bad news is equivalent to being tortured by the Gestapo. I'll take good," Roderich said, watching an aristocratic looking man come into the lobby. He looked like someone Roderich would see at one of his concerts, one of the obnoxious upper class Germans who thought they knew everything about music.

Natalya rested her head against Roderich's shoulder, nestling close to the man. "Put your arm around me," she hissed, her almost-frown turning into an almost-smile. Roderich did exactly as he was told, wondering what had gotten into the woman. Was she trying to make the two of them look like lovers?

"…What are we doing?" Roderich asked, looking down at Natalya.

"It's not 'we,' dear. It's 'what am I doing?'" she said, making much less sense than usual. "You in particular cannot raise suspicions, so I wanted a very inconspicuous look. As far as _he,"_ – she glared at the upper class man – "knows, we're lovers."

"Well, yes, I can see that. I was a bit confused by the sudden development and quite concerned for my life. Can you give me whatever horrible news you have already?"

"You're going on your first real mission today," Natalya whispered. "You are the only one of us with a free pass to Berlin, so we didn't have much of a choice who we wanted to send. See the briefcase next to me?" She made the slightest motion towards it with her head. "Take that with you. Don't open it unless you have a death wish. Actually, why don't you open it?"

"You're absolutely hilarious. I presume there's some sort of explosive inside?" Roderich said, stroking the fur of Natalya's stole. She didn't even notice, keeping her violet eyes on the other man who clearly wasn't a threat.

"Aren't you a smart one? Yes, there is an explosive inside. If all goes according to plan, we're going to off a few SS men. If it doesn't, well, Hitler's going to need a new musician."

"So you _are_ trying to murder me. Why not send Basch or Mathias? I'm sure you could pay for their ticket."

Natalya glanced up at Roderich. "You're the man who almost can't get arrested. And it's not going to be that hard. The only thing you're doing is leaving the briefcase in a room where a SS meeting's going to be. It's in the same office as the one you're going to be in with Himmler. Room 17. Don't worry, the meeting is two hours after your performance. Then you get on a train and come back. No one will ever know it was you."

"You're insane," Roderich said. "I didn't sign up for murder."

"It's not murder, dear. Think of it more as…I lied, it is murder. But lawful murder. These men are the ones in charge of the camps. They've killed so many already. All you're going to do is return the favour."

"I can't."

Natalya dug her fingers into his arm – what would she have done if there wasn't someone in the room with them? "You're going to do it," she snarled. "Those men have killed my people. They took my sister. She is dead, I am sure of it. You must kill them."

"Then why aren't you doing this?" Roderich asked. "Why don't you come with me, make up a lie, and do this yourself? I don't want to even hurt someone, no matter how wicked they are."

"It isn't going to be that hard. The only thing you have to do is leave a briefcase in a room. Simple as that. Lukas even made a whole false lead for the Gestapo that'll take them to France. The entire case is flammable, so there will be no evidence."

"Stop being so damn calm about this. This is a murder, Natalya."

She shrugged. "I don't see it as one. To me, it is revenge."

Roderich sighed – he couldn't argue himself out of the mess. Natalya was dead set on killing the SS men, whoever they were. And even though they were horrible people who didn't deserve to live, Roderich didn't want to be the one to end it all. He'd never even thought of hurting someone before, never mind been part of an assassination plot. How was he supposed to live with himself knowing he'd ended someone's life?

"Why don't you tell me the bad news?" Roderich said, trying to swallow the wretchedness of everything she'd told him.

"If you thought an assassination was bad, wait until you hear this," Natalya said. "Mathias, Lukas, Basch, and Francis have decided that it is in everyone's best interest for you and I to be…romantically involved. Mathias and Basch were the most adamant."

That certainly took Roderich's mind off of murdering.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Roderich asked; he had to have heard her wrong.

"They want us to play lovers. Mathias told me it's so I can get away with more and so we can do missions together and plenty of other shit reasons. Don't think I want to take any part of his fantasy."

"We don't have time for romance, there's a war on," Roderich said. Why hadn't Mathias set her up with someone else who was good with relationships? Francis would've been an excellent choice, being so well versed in the world of romance. Roderich was always working or hungover, he was awkward, and he was definitely not ready to pretend to be in love with a Russian she-wolf.

"Well, obviously. Take you for example. What happened when the war started? Divorce." Again, Natalya had to hide her smile with her hand – if Roderich wasn't the person he was, he would've slapped her right there. "Never mind that. You've got yourself a new girlfriend who wants you decapitated. Don't even think about touching me unless you want to lose your entire hand."

"Same goes for you."

Natalya grabbed the briefcase from beside her, putting it in Roderich's lap. For a second, he was rather impressed with it – Lukas had gone so far as to put the initials "J.T." in the corner. And then he remembered there was a bomb inside and immediately put the briefcase down on the coffee table, pushing it as far away from him as he could.

"Don't be so childish, it won't instantly detonate. Just be careful." Natalya took Roderich's hand in her own. "I will forever hate you if you mess this one up."

"I'll be dead if I mess this up," Roderich snapped. He wasn't sure what was worse – putting his life in more danger or taking someone else's life.

"Remember that you're doing this for me."

"And _that_ makes me want to murder someone."

Natalya clenched his hand so tight Roderich was sure a few bones broke. "This is for my sister. You either kill them or there will be no romance because you are dead."

"You're too kind," Roderich said. "However, I ought to be off to Berlin. So if you could let me go, that'd be wonderful."

"I hope your train derails on the way back," she said with a faked smile, handing the briefcase back to him. Roderich hesitantly took it, praying it wasn't going to be his last day on Earth.

He didn't bother to say anything more to Natalya before grabbing Marlene and leaving the hotel. What more was there to be said? Roderich was off to have an eight-hour panic attack, preform for Himmler, knock off a few SS men, and be home by six the next day to drown his sorrows in beer.

Roderich stepped back out into the snow covered city, shifting the weight of the briefcase. Whatever explosives Lukas had wired inside were far too heavy for a believable briefcase; Roderich made a mental note not to let anyone else hold it. He went over to his car, putting the briefcase in the trunk. As gently as he possibly could, Roderich closed the hatch, hoping this wasn't the end for his Horch.

"Roderich!" he heard Natalya call from somewhere behind him, her heels clicking against the pavement. He turned to face the woman, happy to see that she wasn't holding a pistol or a knife.

"What do you –"

He didn't have time to finish, as Natalya pulled him into a kiss.

Roderich couldn't think of the last time he'd kissed someone, never mind been in close contact with a woman. _It's been at least a year since I've done anything remotely romantic_ , he thought for a fleeting moment as he instinctively pulled Natalya closer. Everything felt wrong – Natalya had met Roderich a handful of days ago, Roderich was in love with his ex-wife, and they were acting like they'd loved each other for years. He wasn't sure how to go about loving someone who he knew was carrying no less than five weapons.

"We've got to start making a scene with you and I," Natalya whispered when she broke away, putting her arms around Roderich's neck.

"Oh, believe me, you've made a big enough scene already. What the hell was that?" Roderich growled through a smile. His face was burning, as was Natalya's. "And could you give me at least some warning next time?"

"We're lovers, Fraulein von Wolffe. We don't need warning. And believe me, I am doing this to find your vulnerable side. The minute Mathias says we can call the romance off, you're getting a knife through your broken heart."

"Please, I'd off myself before you had the chance. Kissing you is going to make me wish I was dead."

Natalya ran her fingers over the lapels of Roderich's coat, straightening his tie for him. "I must say, I'm surprised we've finally agreed on something. Being even remotely nice to you is going to make me consider doing myself in. And by the way, Mathias said he has some things to give you to keep at your house. Will you be back tomorrow?"

"I'll be back, however, there's no saying how sober I'll be," Roderich said.

"Maybe having a new girlfriend will help you sober up. I'm not fond of drunks. My last pretend lover was an alcoholic, and now he's dead."

"Aren't you the sweetest little woman a man could have?"

* * *

Ludwig put a hand to his neck, hiding one of the many bruises. He could see the fist-sized purple splotches over his bare chest, a few clung to his neck, and one strip of blackish-blue ran along his cheekbone. Dried blood made trails from his nose, and scratches crisscrossed over his neck. After trudging home at two in the morning, he'd glanced in the mirror and decided that he didn't look all that bad before going to bed. When he woke up that morning, Ludwig had vainly hoped there would be a way to hide the fight's marks.

However, now that he was fully conscious, Ludwig was having serious doubts about more than just his appearance. If he looked this bad, what did Hochstetter look like? And the two's offices were separated by a thin wall – Hochstetter could decide to resume the fight at any time he wanted. The rest of Headquarters wouldn't care that two of their best agents were trying to rip each other to pieces; no, they'd encourage it.

And then there was the whole Christian ordeal on top of everything. How were the two going to finish the case if they wanted each other dead?

 _I don't get it,_ Ludwig said to himself, wiping away the dried blood with a wet rag _. What did I do to deserve anything that happened last night? I had a valid reason to be angry; Hochstetter had no reason. I'm not weak because I won't kill an innocent man. Hell, my conscience makes me better than everyone at Headquarters. At least I have morals and won't murder someone for something they didn't do._

 _Still, Hochstetter's right. According to the Gestapo, I am the weak link. Maybe I should quit and go find something else to do. It'd be better than getting the shit beat out of me for not wanting to hurt someone I used to consider an ally._

Ludwig buttoned his shirt up, tugging on the collar to try and hide some of the bruises. What were people going to think, seeing a man in SS uniform who'd lost a fight? The Gestapo were supposed to be strong and unopposed and never a failure. That morning, Ludwig was the opposite of everything the Nazis wanted him to be.

"Maybe I should quit," Ludwig said aloud, positioning his red armband so the swastika was perfectly centered. "Maybe this isn't worth it. Maybe I really am a failure."

He looked back up at the mirror – at the tired blue eyes, at the dark bruise, at the hopeless man standing before him. Time and again he'd seen a striking Aryan in the mirror, the perfect example of what a German citizen should look like. That morning, he saw a broken, worn down man, a scared soldier fighting a war he couldn't win.

And no matter how hard he tried, the war was never going to end.

"I suppose I can't give up yet," Ludwig said. "After all, I've got to get Basch arrested. And Roderich, and perhaps Christian. And then when that's over, everything can be over…" he trailed off, shoving the thoughts far from his mind.

"What do you think, Berlitz? Do I look alright?" Ludwig asked in a much less serious voice, turning to face the old dog. Berlitz took one look at him and yawned.

"Can't you have a little bit of sympathy for me?" Ludwig went over to Berlitz, ruffling the dog's white fur. "I worry about you every day, and you could care less about my wellbeing."

Berlitz stood up, walking out of the room.

"Oh, so you think you're too good for me?" Ludwig said with a smile, brushing the white hairs from his black uniform. A white dog and an SS uniform didn't work well together. "And who's the one who feeds you and takes care of you?"

He went out into the front room, mentally preparing himself for the day ahead of him. Work was going to be interesting, to say the least. Hochstetter was liable to do anything that day, if he was even there. The man was fond of calling in sick and straight up vanishing for days at a time, no one knowing where he went off to. And somehow, he was a higher rank than Ludwig, who showed up for work every day on time.

"I'll see you tonight, Berlitz!" Ludwig called over his shoulder. "Try to work on sympathy while I'm gone!"

And with that, Ludwig was off to fight his war.

Over the past weeks, he'd realized how deep his hatred for winter was. Ludwig's Mercedes wasn't fond of running in winter, leaving Ludwig with a little under a kilometer to walk to work. At the beginning of December, he'd figured it wouldn't be worse than walking in summer. And for a while, it was exactly as he suspected. The walk was cold and lonely and gave Ludwig a bit too much time to think over things.

Until it snowed. Not only was he walking to work at five-thirty a.m., he was trudging through snowdrifts. By the time he got to work, his feet were numb and he was plotting the destruction of mankind.

And today was no different. When he finally reached Headquarters, Ludwig was cursing himself for not staying in bed and forgetting about his perfect record. He went inside, going straight to his office without a word to anyone. As he went to open the door, Ludwig found it already unlocked. Did he forget to lock it last night? Or even worse, was Hochstetter already there, waiting for him?

He pushed open the door, not at all surprised to see Hochstetter sitting on the edge of his desk, a cold smile on his face. Ludwig almost grinned at the sight of the bandage holding his nose straight, then decided it better not to enrage the man.

"What do you want?" Ludwig asked, closing the door behind him. This was between him and Hochstetter, not the entire office.

"Holy shit, I thought I looked bad," Hochstetter said dryly, his seemingly undying cheer gone. "Look at you."

"I asked you a question. What do you want?"

"Nothing like what you're thinking," Hochstetter said. "No fights or anything. I'm leaving after this, but I thought you ought to know something."

"Leaving as in forever leaving, or running off to wherever it is you go when things get too difficult for you?"

Hochstetter rolled his eyes. "I wish I was leaving forever. I wouldn't miss your passive-aggressive comments. I'm going to work out some things that don't involve you. Maybe you'll have calmed down by the time I come back and we can talk this out rationally."

"You're the one that started this whole thing," Ludwig snapped, going over to the man. Now that he was closer, Ludwig could see the bloody and bruised imprints of his knuckles in Hochstetter's nose. "None of this would've happened if it wasn't for you and your damn lust for every woman in this country."

"Whatever. I'm not here to talk about my love life with you." Hochstetter held up a file, flipping through a few pages before handing it to Ludwig. "You didn't grab this one last night. It's my handwritten file on this whole helluva case we've been working on. _Handwritten_." He tapped a name among the cursive. "I swear I never wrote 'Christian Francis Kleiner,' and there it is, in my handwriting."

"How do I know you didn't write that in this morning?" Ludwig said, handing the folder back to Hochstetter. "This is your way of getting back at me, isn't it? Trying to prove that I'm paranoid and insane and whatever else you want to call me."

"I know you won't take my word, but I swear I didn't write that in."

Ludwig grabbed one of the six files from his desk, holding it up for Hochstetter to see. "And I suppose you haven't tampered with these?"

"I've been here for five minutes. You can check my time card. That's not enough time to write up hundreds of papers," Hochstetter replied. "Believe what you want. I'm starting to think we were the wrong ones this time around."

Ludwig opened the folder, looking at the first line. Sure enough, "Kleiner, Christian Francis" was printed, the e in Kleiner slightly crooked like it always had been. It didn't appear to have changed since the night before, looking exactly how Ludwig remembered it, save for the middle name.

"You were tired, I was borderline drunk, we could've made a mistake. I'm not completely ruling out Christian having a dark secret, though," Hochstetter said, snatching up another folder. "Christian Francis Kleiner," he read aloud. "Sounds like your typical bastard."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Ludwig growled, looking down at Hochstetter.

"Ja, I do." Hochstetter got up, going over to the door. For a second he stood there, as if he wasn't sure if he should leave yet. "Hey, kid, I know you're mad at me," he started, looking back at Ludwig, "But can you do me a favour?"

"I doubt it."

"Don't tell anyone I left, alright? You know nothing about my disappearance."

"I'll see what I can do," Ludwig said. "I'm not making a promise."

Hochstetter smiled. "Thanks. And, hey, I'm sorry about what I said last night. I'm not sorry for punching you, because sometimes people need that. You're…You're not a weak link. Hell, you're stronger than most of us here. So what if you can't kill someone? That makes you a helluva lot better than me."

"Is this a real apology, or are you going to start yelling at me for something else I can't do?" Ludwig asked – Hochstetter _couldn't_ be apologizing.

"No, this is real. You stay the way you are, kid. Maybe you've still got some good left in you. There isn't a whole lot left of that in this world." Hochstetter stepped out the door, on the way to wherever it was that he went.

* * *

"So, Josef's told me you're a propaganda man now. Is that true?"

"I wouldn't call myself a propaganda man. To answer your question, yes, I am working with the ministry of propaganda," Roderich said, tightening his grip on the briefcase's handle. Here he was; a Jew, talking to the mastermind behind the Gestapo while holding a time bomb that was intended to end a few lives of said mastermind's generals. What wasn't there to be afraid of?

"I always thought you would make a good Gestapo man. Shame everyone else got to you first." Himmler smiled, pushing up his circle-rimmed glasses.

 _I would make a good Gestapo man? Does he know who he's talking to?_

 _I hope he doesn't._

"Don't flatter me, sir. I'd be wreck in the Gestapo. I'm a wreck in propaganda," Roderich said, once again shifting the briefcase's weight. Time was wasting away, making Roderich more and more nervous. He still had a train to catch before Berlin had a panic attack over seven generals dying in a freak explosion. Himmler sounded so proud of the generals, too, making everything worse.

"You don't seem too fond of the idea," Himmler said. "Or is it Josef that's bothering you?" He chose his words carefully so as to not insult his fellow Nazi elite. Himmler always spoke with a sense of caution – what was there for him to worry about? Roderich was the one whose life was in danger.

"No, sir, no one's bothering me. It's a little jarring to be a part of everything, especially something as big as this. I'd never have thought I'd be working for the minister of propaganda."

"It is quite nerve-wracking when you start out. How long have you been working with him?"

"Three months, sir," Roderich replied. "I've been preforming for five years."

"It's been five years? I still remember when Hitler brought you in for us, saying he'd found a musical genius in Vienna. How did he ever find you?" Himmler asked.

Roderich absently checked his watch – he had three hours until the bomb was set to explode. Even that felt too close. "I couldn't tell you," he started, putting on the faked smile he used for Nazi officials. "I was working with one of my professors on a Ravel piece and someone came in and told me the Führer wanted to speak with me. I thought they were joking. I refused to go with them, that is, until the Führer came into the room. He had me play a few pieces for him and we talked about my music. That was back in '37, though. And now I'm here, talking to you, sir, and working for Herr Goebbels."

"You were all of nineteen when you first came to Berlin," Himmler said, sounding like the father he wasn't. "We weren't sure what Hitler was doing, dragging a boy in here. I must say, I didn't expect you to be so talented. You certainly didn't look the part."

"Even today I don't look the part. I'm only a man from Salzburg, not someone who was meant to be a great musician. I was supposed to be a glassworker or a soldier or something else that my father found suitable."

"You've never talked about your father before." Himmler must've caught on to Roderich's hatred for his father, not quite asking about the man but not quite letting the subject go.

"He and I think very differently. We haven't been on good terms since I was about six," Roderich said. "I haven't heard from him since I moved to Vienna."

"I'm sorry to hear about that."

"What is there to be sorry about? I hate him, he hates me. It's better that we stay separated, or else one of us may end up dead." Once again, Roderich checked his watch. "I'm sorry, sir; it's getting late and I need to get back to Vienna. I hope you won't mind me leaving so soon."

"You seem more eager than normal. Is there someone waiting for you?" Himmler asked.

 _Regrettably, there is a woman waiting for me. Quite possibly with a loaded gun._

"No, I don't have anyone yet. I've got a lot of work to finish," Roderich answered, figuring it better to not talk about Natalya until she had her papers. He didn't know what nationality she was going to be yet, her age, even what her name was.

Himmler's sky blue eyes gave away his disbelief, but he didn't say anything against Roderich's lie. "You're a good man, Roderich. Who knows, some day you may take Josef's place."

"I doubt it. I will never have the charisma he has."

"You're charismatic; you just don't realize it," Himmler said. "Music is one of the most powerful things in the world. It can make people do things without them realizing. You could put that to good use."

"Maybe I could," Roderich said. He held up his arm in the half-salute the officials insisted he used with them, despite being so much lower than them. " _Heil Hitler."_

 _"Heil Hitler."_

The first thing Roderich noticed when he went back out into the hallway was how empty it was. He was expecting at least a few people, seeing as Heinrich Himmler was in the building. There were two SS guards standing by the door, neither of the two daring to look at Roderich. Other than them, there wasn't a person in sight. Roderich went over to the staircase, glancing back at the two guards. They still stood at perfect attention, semi-automatic rifles crossed over their medal-laden chests.

His footsteps echoed in the stairwell as Roderich went up to the third floor, his knuckles white from holding onto the briefcase. Every step was like a gunshot, reminding him of the firing squad he was going to be put in front of if he made a mistake. Roderich half expected one of them to be a real gunshot from one of the SS guards.

And then he got to the third floor. Room 17 was right by the stairwell, the number engraved on a golden plaque with an eagle holding a swastika. Roderich felt like the eagle's talons were curling around his throat, an icy fear making his breathing short and sharp. He shouldn't go through with the plan, not when there was so much against him. There were eyes hidden throughout the building, hidden microphones and guards and things that would ultimately end in his death.

Roderich went into Room 17, heartbeat racing in his chest. It was like any other conference room, with a long table and chairs and painfully dull interior decorating choices. He could see why the Nazis would've chosen the office, as it wasn't anything memorable. People out to kill seven Nazi generals would expect them to meet in a lavish hotel.

Except for the saboteurs Roderich knew. The psychotic group of people he'd grown to love over the past months didn't think like most of the resistance movements did. Somehow, they'd figured out exactly where the Nazis were holding their meetings for the next two months and set up several different missions to destroy all of them. Roderich's was only one piece in the giant puzzle.

He closed the door behind him, going over to the long table. Natalya hadn't specified where to put the briefcase, only saying to make it as "unnoticeable" as possible. Roderich didn't know what qualified as unnoticeable for her; he slipped the briefcase in a shelf full of Nazi-glorifying things. The Nazis wouldn't bother to look there, or so he hoped.

 _What's happened to me?_ Roderich mentally asked a bust of Adolf Hitler, too scared to speak out loud. He draped a small red flag over the briefcase, smoothing out the swastika. _I used to be a good man, you know. I really did. Until I started working for you_ , he added, putting the bronze head and shoulders of Hitler over the briefcase.

 _Oh, how fun it is to be part of the Nazi Empire._

Roderich took a step back, admiring his work. No one would notice the briefcase now – it looked like their beloved leader was on a pedestal. Everything would go accordingly to plan, and Roderich would unwillingly assassinate seven people.

He went over to the giant window at the far end of the room, trying to come to terms with himself. What _was_ he doing, setting up explosives and carrying partisan plans around Vienna? Roderich put his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes for a moment. When he came to Vienna, he wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life as a composer. And now he was working for Josef Goebbels, preforming for Himmler, and working with the biggest resistance movement in Vienna. So much for a quiet life.

Roderich opened his eyes, looking down at the people of Berlin. He wanted to be like the people on the streets; carefree, blissfully ignorant, living an insignificant life. They had nothing to be guilty about, no worries or regrets or nightmares from all the awful things they'd done. They were just humans. Plain, simple humans. They hadn't involuntarily killed hundreds of people, set bombs in offices, lived a life they weren't supposed to.

And yet, even though Roderich had done all of those atrocious things, he was somewhat at ease with himself. Yes, Hitler had ordered for ghettos to be cleared because of Roderich's music, he was part of an assassination plot, and he should not be preforming for Heinrich Himmler. Roderich knew he should feel crushed with guilt and remorse and all the other things associated with murder; only, he didn't. For some reason, he was alright with everything. He was perfectly fine with being a Jewish Nazi saboteur.

And that scared him more than any Gestapo man could.

* * *

 **History Notes:**

 **Heinrich Himmler – the Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel (SS). While many people blame Adolf Hitler for the Holocaust, Himmler was one of the main people directly responsible for the Holocaust. He was undyingly loyal to Hitler, even saying in one of his letters that if Hitler told him to kill his mother, he would. In another letter, he wrote, "Despite the work [sending people to concentration camps, running the Gestapo] I am doing fine and sleep well." Himmler visited most of the concentration camps where his men were working, even bringing his daughter with him to Dachau. His private letters were recently revealed to the public, putting a bit of insight into the man.**

 **Bomb in the briefcase – alluding to Operation Valkyrie, a giant scheme for the downfall of Nazi Germany. I won't go into the technicality of it all, but basically, a man named Klaus von Stauffenberg put a bomb in a briefcase and placed it in a conference room on July 20** **th** **, 1944. It did not kill Hitler as planned, but was one of the first steps in bringing down Nazi Germany.**

 **Sorry for the smaller chapter, but school's drawing closer and I have less and less time. I'll try better next week.**

 **Thank you to** EllaAwkward **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **,** Decoris **, and** FlamingFyre **! You guys are the best ever!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	14. Affrettando

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

Natalya stopped for a moment, turning back to look at Francis. The lamplight made a halo over her blonde hair, her violet eyes gleaming with unsettling excitement. "Was that fear I heard? Is the courageous Christian Kleiner afraid of a little adventure into _Klein-Russland_?"

"I'm not afraid. It's just that you aren't a very trustworthy person," Francis said, walking a bit closer to the woman. If worst came to worst, she was the one with a pistol. "Not to mention that we are in the mostly illegal part of town. Even I don't come here," he added, searching an alley for a pair of eyes or the gleam of a sawed-off shotgun. "And I have dramatically lower standards than everyone else."

"To you, it is illegal. To me, it is home."

They walked in silence for a while longer, Francis considering running. Every instinct of his was telling him to get out of the place; could he leave Natalya on her own? She certainly wasn't helpless and could fend off anyone who tried to attack her; however, Francis still had some standards. A woman was a woman, no matter how murderous and vengeful they were.

"You Russians are…interesting," Francis said as they walked by a wall painted with Cyrillic, cradling the stiletto in his pocket.

It wasn't that he had something against Russians – he'd helped plenty in the past and talked to Ivan at least once a month to make sure everything was alright in the stalag. But the Russians who lived in the back alleys of the city weren't the same people who came to him for help. They were mean and violent thieves, men and women out to kill and rob innocents blind. The Russians only accepted their own kind, which Natalya was and Francis was not.

In other words, everyone there wanted Francis dead.

"Better than you dull French," Natalya muttered.

"Excuse you," Francis said, his voice trembling more than he would've liked. "May I remind you that France is the country of romance –"

"And may I remind you that you lost the war before it even started?" Natalya interrupted. "You poor, helpless French didn't stand a chance in front of Germany. You let them walk all over your precious city of love. And look, they're cleaning out the unfit and shipping them out like they did here."

"You don't have to be so rude."

"Darling, _I_ am rude." Natalya grabbed Francis' wrist, taking away his chances to run. "Now, when we get there, I have a few rules for you. Do not socialize. The women there may look pretty, but their lipstick is drugged. One kiss and they can take your wallet, papers, and dignity," she said, making Francis suddenly aware of Natalya's red lipstick.

"Do not speak. My people do not like German or French, and you know no Russian," she continued. "Do not accept anything from anyone, as it will probably be drugged and I have no interest in saving you from the people who do those things. And for the love of God, keep your hands in your pockets and put anything you don't want stolen in those pockets."

"Is there anything else I need to be aware of?" Francis asked, realizing why Basch made him go with Natalya.

"Just don't say or do anything," Natalya said, taking Francis down a somehow darker looking alley. Immediately Francis tensed up, and Natalya tightened her grip on his wrist. She wasn't going to let him escape.

For what seemed like centuries, the two walked down the alley, Natalya leading the way and Francis cowering behind her. Francis was sure someone was going to come out of the shadows at any moment, absolutely positive there would be a gun to his temple in a second. The two came to a group of men gathered around a back door talking in fast Russian, each of them with a cigarette in hand. He could see one man had a pistol on his hip, and another was passing around a bottle of vodka.

One of the men looked up.

The alley went quiet.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Francis knew someone was going to find his body in the Danube the next morning.

The man who saw them first called out something in his mother tongue, his smile unbelievably friendly. Natalya said something back, nudging Francis forward as she did so. Was she introducing him or offering him as a sacrifice?

"You speak no Russian?" he slurred in rough German, coming over to Francis. "Any other languages?"

"He speaks French," Natalya said when Francis didn't answer.

"I guess we are speaking the devil's language, then," the man said. "You are Christian Kleiner, yes? You get people out of here?"

Francis nodded, too scared to do anything else.

"First time here," Natalya explained. "Or anywhere like this. He is Christian. His real name is Francis Bonnefoy. He's the one who got me to Vienna."

"A Frenchman in Vienna. How odd. You saved my brother years ago, got him to Switzerland before the Gestapo got him. Do you remember a Dmitryev?"

"Yes."

"So he does speak!" The man laughed, dark eyes twinkling with real human emotion, not pure malice. "You are good man, Francis. Saved many of my people. For that, we will let you live."

"Oh, thank you, sir," Francis stammered, not sure whether to feel relieved or even more panicked.

"It's the least I can do for you after what you've done for us. So, Francis, what brings you and this darling woman to our little Russia?"

"We need news from Berlin," Francis said. "And Natalya took me here."

"You need to see the old man?" the man asked, looking to Natalya for an answer.

"Yes. We need to see him immediately."

The man nodded, not quite understanding the severity of the situation. He wasn't the one who didn't know if Roderich was dead or alive – they hadn't seen the man come back, and he wasn't at any of the usual bars. It'd been two days since he left for Berlin, and Roderich said he would be back by the next morning. Something wasn't adding up.

He led the two over to the back door, muttering something in Russian to the other men. They stared at Francis, a bit wary of the man. None of them put a gun to his head or grabbed his throat, so they seemed to accept him. Francis looked back down at the ground, remembering Natalya's rules from earlier as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Inside the building was just as decrepit as the outside. The whole Russian part of the bad side of Vienna was run-down, so it didn't come as a surprise to see broken windows and spider webs. Peeling wallpaper, a thick layer of dust on the floor, and smashed furniture made it look like no one had lived there in years. Francis suspected the house was a victim of _Kristallnacht_ – the Star of David scratched into the wall with cruel Cyrillic beneath it was a dead giveaway. The only thing that told him there were humans somewhere in the building was the faint voice, thousands of words blurred into one.

"Be careful, Francis. The women in there will tear you apart if you're not careful," the man said, going over to a thick velvet curtain. Francis could smell the smoke from the other room, the voice much louder than before. Now he could hear individual voices – people fighting, people laughing, people talking of times long gone and times yet to be and everything in between.

"I've already warned him," Natalya said. "Thank you for not murdering him."

"You're welcome. It's always nice to see you, Natalya. You should come around more often, get better acquainted with me," he said with a suggestive smile.

"I have a job that requires a certain look. I can't be seen with you."

"Oh, and that makes you better than the rest of us? Well, if you ever want to have real fun, you know where I am. I'm on guard duty for another hour, so I can't take you in. It was a pleasure to meet you, Francis," the man said, going back to the door to the outside. He glanced back at Natalya, mouthing something in Russian before stepping outside.

"That's Fedorov," Natalya said. "I've only been here for a week and he wants me to marry him."

"When have you had the time to come here?" Francis asked.

Natalya shrugged. "Whenever. I come here to speak my language and see my people. The same reason why you would go to Paris. Are you ready for this?"

"I'm never ready for anything."

Natalya pulled back the curtain, looped her arm through Francis', and led him inside.

The room was dim, however, that didn't make it impossible for Francis to ignore the stares. He couldn't be sure if they were staring at him – the women certainly were, as they pointed at him and whispered to each other. The men were looking at the killer queen standing next to Francis, Natalya muttering a few words in Russian. She took Francis through the hazy room, thick with the musky smell of smoke, alcohol, and cheap perfume, disregarding catcalls. Francis couldn't tell if he heard a woman screaming or laughing. It was probably both.

Francis had been raised on the thought that Russians were no good, downright evil people. Perhaps they were leftover grudges from Napoleon's failures; whatever it was, everyone told him Russians couldn't be trusted. Over the years, he'd learned that Russians were usually sweet, innocent people, no different than the rest of the world. However, the men and women in the shady room, some half-clothed and most drunk, did not fit that sweet and innocent idea he'd conceived. He was right back in his Parisian home, listening to his mother talk about the demons who lived in a far off snowy country.

"Hey, Arlovskya, come here for a moment," one woman said in perfect German as they walked by. Natalya stopped, probably startled to hear the hated language. She turned to the woman, an eyebrow arched in silent question.

"That's a real cute one you've got," the woman continued, getting up from her table. She came over to Francis, examining the man like a priceless artifact. She touched one of Francis' curls, as if trying to see if it was real or not. "Looks expensive," she said, putting a hand to his face. Francis wasn't sure what to do as the woman ran her hand down his jaw, her red lips spread into a lopsided grin. "What did he cost?"

"He did not cost anything," Natalya said, her words sharp and cold.

"Come on, you can tell me. Where the hell do you find a whore that looks this good?"

Francis felt his face go red, looking down at the dirty floor to hide his shame. He'd been called plenty of things in his life, and considering the divorces it was no surprise that a woman would call him a whore, but it still stung.

"He isn't anything like that. I'm not like that," Natalya snapped.

"We're all friends here, Arlovskya. You should share a handsome bastard like him. What's his name again?"

"None of your concern."

The woman rolled her eyes. "What's your name, dear?" she asked Francis. "Or do you not have one yet?"

"My name is Christian," Francis answered, looking back up at the woman to show he wasn't afraid.

"What a saintly name for a man of your profession," the woman said. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind telling me who you work for."

"Do not answer her," Natalya growled, pulling Francis away from the woman towards a back room. Francis hid his face, trying his best to ignore the shouts and laughter.

"I am so sorry about that," Natalya apologized as they stepped into the back room, shooting a glare towards the woman. "The women here, they are obsessed with finding new lovers. And you are much prettier than the things they drag off the streets."

"Was that a compliment?" Francis said. "Or were you adding insult to injury?"

"Maybe both. Don't tell anyone I told you that." She turned away from him, her face as red as his. Natalya took him up a flight of creaking stairs, coming to a door with deep scratches in the wood. She knocked on it a few times, smoothing her dress.

" _Privet,_ Natalya," a man said when he opened the door, his dark eyes immediately going to Francis. "You have brought a foreigner."

"He is with me," Natalya said. "Can we ask you about something?"

"Wait, you know him?" Francis asked before the man could answer – what had Natalya been doing when he wasn't around?

The man's lips flicked up into a smile. "Everyone knows everyone here. How much do you need to know?"

"Very little. There was a bombing in Berlin two days ago. How many SS men did it kill, and don't tell me what Hitler's been telling me. And where is Roderich von Wolffe?"

"Are you part of the Angels already?" the man said with a deep rumble of a laugh. It reminded Francis of his father's laugh, a memory buried deep in the slums of Paris. "Oh, dear, you better come in. And bring your boyfriend with you, you can't trust those girls downstairs."

* * *

Where was Roderich von Wolffe?

He couldn't answer the question himself. Lost was the only word that came to mind. Somewhere between Heaven and Hell. Oddly sober. Cold. And guilty, oh-so agonizingly guilty. Roderich hadn't felt this horrible in years. He'd once thought hangovers were the epitome of pain, the worst possible thing a man could feel.

He'd forgotten how bad guilt hurt. It wasn't aching or dull or anything like the mornings after drinking himself senseless. No, it was a sharp pain in his chest, the world bearing down on his shoulders, and a voice in his head telling him he was useless. The shame crushed him not only physically, but mentally. It twisted his thoughts and fed him lies and told him there would never, not ever be a man so lowly as him.

Roderich looked over at the bottle beside him, wondering why it was still sealed. Expensive Russian vodka, the high-end way to get drunk fast. He'd bought it thinking the morning would be just like any other morning after a performance, full of anger and regret. Maybe he'd realized that shame was a pain so bad even the most expensive vodka couldn't wash it away.

Two days he'd spent hiding from the truth, first in a cheap hotel in Prague and now in a park in Vienna. At some point he was going to have to go home; he didn't want to think about it. Roderich didn't want to face the inevitable.

"What the hell am I doing with my life?" he said aloud – it was early in the morning, there was no one on the bridge with him. It was Roderich, the vodka, Marlene, and the Danube. "I'm a murderer. A real killer. And what am I doing? I'm talking to myself at five a.m. I'm too scared to go home, what with a Gestapo man living next to me. I'm too scared to go anywhere, as someone's probably there waiting for me. I'm even too scared to get drunk. Me, an alcoholic, too damn scared to drink!"

Roderich ran his fingers through his hair, leaning against the railing of the bridge for support. "Oh, this is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. I've killed someone. I've killed seven real people. People with families and children and people who really loved them. And I took that away. I stole everything from those men.

"But they took so many more lives, so am I that bad?"

Roderich paused for a moment, thinking over everything yet again. He'd been stuck in the cycle of right and wrong for hours now, wondering if what he'd done was truly justified or downright evil. Yes, the SS generals were nothing short of demonic; that didn't mean they weren't humans. And then again, they were the ones responsible for the deaths of far too many people. It was all wrong. He shouldn't have killed someone, they shouldn't have killed thousands, nothing like it should have ever happened.

"Who am I kidding, killing even one of them makes me as bad as they are," Roderich said. "A murderer is a murderer, no matter what. Even though what I've done is almost justified, it's a murder. How is someone supposed to live with this feeling? I've ended lives before they were over. What if those men were going to do something wonderful? What if they weren't really horrible and were trying to save lives? I shouldn't have done it. _I shouldn't have done it."_

He looked back down at the river, its waters gleaming in the moonlight. So many times he'd come to the river to think over a piece or question his will to live. The Danube used to be calming for him, an anchor in the disaster that was his life. It was a timeless being, a spirit that had lived for centuries longer and seen so much more than Roderich ever would. And rivers listened. Rivers paid attention better than anyone Roderich knew. He could tell his worries to the waters and they would never talk back, never laugh or try and comfort him. The Danube only listened.

"Oh, God," Roderich whispered, tears stinging at the corners of his tired eyes. "Oh, God, I killed someone. I didn't even do anything to stop it. No, I willingly became a murderer."

He slumped over the railing, hiding his eyes with trembling hands. Was it even worth it? Was killing the seven general honestly worth the pain and torment it was causing him? How many lives did he save? As far as Roderich knew, none of the generals had died. And if he'd managed to kill at least one, there was always someone to replace a general, always another blond haired, blue eyed monster. Another man to order the deaths of thousands. Another man to hunt down the unfit and send them on trains to Poland.

There was always a replacement. Roderich had said it himself countless times; people were surprisingly disposable. Usually, he was telling it to Gilbert, reminding the arrogant bastard who he worked for. Only now, Roderich was saying it to himself. Just like colonels, there was always another musical prodigy. He couldn't be the only man in Vienna with talent. Hitler could pick out another music student with some promise, write off Roderich's death as something heroic, and the world wouldn't miss him.

"I see why you hear about murder-suicides," Roderich said, wiping at his eyes. "Killing someone puts life in a whole new perspective."

"Herr von Wolffe?"

Roderich looked up, his heart stopping when he saw the Gestapo man standing no more than a few steps away from him. He almost didn't recognize the man, not with the bruises on his face and neck. Ludwig took a step forward, his eyebrows furrowed together. "Are you alright?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"When did you get here?" Roderich said, his voice barely audible over the rush of the river. "How long have you been there?"

 _This is it,_ he told himself _. He's going to shoot me right here. He heard everything. He had to. Unless that man is deaf, I'm going to Mauthausen._

"I haven't heard anything, if that's what you're so worried about," Ludwig said. He glanced past Roderich, catching sight of the vodka bottle. "Have you been drinking?" he asked in a soft voice, scared he might offend Roderich.

"I wish. But no, I haven't even opened it. So, what brings you here so early in the morning? Did you get in a fight or something?"

"I could be asking you the same question."

Roderich sighed, looking back at the river. "I needed to think over everything. You?"

"I wanted to get to work early." Ludwig came over beside Roderich, giving the man an uncharacteristically caring smile. "I think I can be a bit late, though. And I look like I got in a fight because I was in a fight. But that's not important. Do you mind if I ask what you were thinking about?"

"…Have you ever done something so horribly wrong you feel like you should be shot for it?"

Ludwig laughed a bit, leaning up against the railing. "I work for the Gestapo. How much worse could you get?"

"True. Only, what I did is worse than the Gestapo. And I can't stop thinking about how God awful and horrible and just wretched it makes me," Roderich said. "The only thing I can do is remind myself that I don't deserve to be where I am or even living. I'm worthless."

"We all think we're worthless. I think I should quit the Gestapo every day I when wake up. You think whatever you've done deserves the death penalty." Ludwig paused for a moment, looking down at Roderich. "It wasn't illegal, right?"

 _It was_ , Roderich wanted to say. _It was, it was, it was. I deserve the death penalty._ "No, it wasn't illegal," he answered without hesitation.

"Even if it was, I wouldn't have arrested you right here. And I know you wouldn't trust me with something like that. My point is, you don't see yourself through someone else's eyes. You see yourself as worthless, I see you as everything I've ever wanted to be. You're talented, you're intelligent, for God's sake, you work for Adolf Hitler!" Ludwig said with a smile. "You are exactly the person I wanted to be when I was younger. You're the kind of person the whole world wants to be."

"The whole world wants to be an alcoholic?"

"So maybe we ditch that part," Ludwig said. "But you're a real person, Roderich. What more could you want? You don't have to pretend to be someone else. You're honest and selfless and you listen. You don't have to be like me, where I pretend to be strong and brave and all those things I'm not. You don't have to hide behind a different name or a different personality. You're Roderich von Wolffe."

"What if I'm not?" Roderich said before he could stop himself. The irony of it all was killing him – he wasn't a real person. Roderich von Wolffe was something Francis dreamed up, a fictional character living Roderich Edelstein's life.

"What do you mean?"

"I…I mean, what if I'm really not Roderich von Wolffe? I'm a drunk who can't hold onto anything, some man from Salzburg with way too many dreams. That doesn't sound like the von Wolffe you're talking about," Roderich said in a desperate attempt to fix his mistake before Ludwig caught on.

"You can't have light without dark. For all the light you have with you and who you are, I find it amazing that you have even a bit of dark. So what if you're a drunk?" Ludwig asked. "That doesn't make you any less of a person to me. It shows me that you have troubles, too, and you're not perfect. No one likes perfect. You're a human, and a good one at that."

"I'm glad you see me that way," Roderich said, standing up straight again. It was strange to hear kind words coming from a Gestapo man; he didn't know Ludwig was capable of emotions. "I wish I saw things the same way you do."

Ludwig's face went pink, his blue eyes going back to the Danube. "God, I'm sorry for talking so much," he said, tugging at the sleeves of his uniform. "I didn't mean to waste your time."

"You haven't wasted my time. If anything, you've kept me from doing something rash. You're a good man, Ludwig. A lot better than your brother."

"Definitely." Ludwig smiled to himself. "Gilbert's not too happy with you, by the way. He ranted to me about how he absolutely hated you for a good hour. Told me you'd been coming to Stalag XVIII-A more often and talking to Elizabeta. What's that about?"

"It isn't anything like what your brother's suggesting," Roderich said. "We're arguing out things that didn't get settled. She took a lot more than she owned. Not that she needed it, she did it just to make me mad. I haven't been there for some time. I tried to go a while back, and someone told me the camp was under quarantine and I couldn't speak with anyone."

"Quarantine?" Ludwig echoed.

"Don't ask me, I was told to leave immediately. Didn't your brother talk to you about it?"

"I haven't talked to him in a while," Ludwig said. "I think I have to now. It was a pleasure talking to you, Herr von Wolffe. And whatever you've done, I'm sure it can't be that bad."

Roderich grabbed Marlene's case and the bottle of vodka, giving Ludwig a tired grin. "Maybe I was overreacting a bit."

"That's the spirit." Ludwig tipped his hat as a silent goodbye, walking off towards the city. He stopped a few paces away, turning back to look at Roderich. "Oh, and Herr von Wolffe?"

"Yes?"

"If you ever need someone to drink with, you know where to find me."

Roderich couldn't resist a smile – it was so painfully obvious Ludwig was setting him up. He almost found it cute, like a child telling a story every knew was made up. "I might take you up on that," Roderich said to spite him. "Until next time, Herr Beilschmidt."

* * *

Waiting was not one of Basch's strong points. He'd always done things like he was running out of time, and expected everyone else to do the same.

Unfortunately, most of the world didn't think the way Basch did.

Basch was quickly becoming aware that he'd made a mistake sending Francis out alone with Natalya. They'd left at five; it was seven-thirty. It was only a ten-minute trip to the Russian part of town; it shouldn't have taken them more than thirty minutes to find out what happened and come back. Maybe an hour if they went to go look for Roderich. Two hours and thirty minutes was borderline unreasonable.

"You're making the face again," Lilli said, snapping Basch out of his thoughts.

"No, I'm not." Basch went back to picking at his meager breakfast to avoid looking at the girl.

"Yes, you were. What are you worrying about?"

"Shouldn't you be at school?" Basch growled.

Lilli shrank back, not used to being snapped at by her brother. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to help."

"It's fine. I'm a little on edge, that's all. Something's wrong. They shouldn't have been gone for so long," Basch said. "And there's a million things that could've happened."

"I'm sure they're fine."

"You're sure. But am I sure?"

Lilli shrugged. "Francis is smart; he can get out of anything. Fraulein Arlovskya wouldn't let anyone hurt him. There's really nothing to be this upset about."

"Think about what happened with Francis and that Gestapo man. Everyone makes mistakes, and some of them aren't as easy to fix as breaking into Gestapo Headquarters and replacing every single file," Basch said, holding his head. "We can't risk doing something like that again. That could've got every one of Vienna's Angels shot."

"I don't like to be so blunt with you," Lilli said, twisting one of her braids around her finger, "Just…you can be such a downer sometimes."

"That's who I am."

"Could you try not to be you?"

Basch smiled, looking up at the girl. "Well, then, who should I be? Hitler?"

"No," Lilli said with a hint of a laugh. "Be like…Mathias."

"You _want_ me to be absolutely obnoxious?" Basch asked.

"Not the obnoxious part. The happy, cheery part."

"Please, Lilli, that'd kill me. Or do you want me dead?"

"Just give it a try," Lilli said as she got up, grabbing her books from the table. Basch hated to see her with books like "Racial Studies" in her arms; if he could stop her from going to school, he would. She came over to Basch, giving her brother a hug. "Will you be working tonight?"

"It depends on when Natalya and Francis get back," Basch said. "You be careful, alright?"

Lilli nodded, flashing a reassuring grin. "I'll be fine. Try to cheer up for me."

She turned on her heels to leave right as the door was thrown open with a _bang!_ Francis came inside with a huge smile, Natalya and Roderich not quite as thrilled. Roderich was holding a bottle – he'd probably been interrupted in the middle of his drinking and decided to bring it to Basch's house. And Natalya had her trademark cigarette between her dark lips, having no regard for Basch's rules about things they were allowed to do in his house.

"Guess who killed seven generals?" Francis asked, blue eyes twinkling with slightly morbid excitement.

"I did," Roderich muttered, looking tired and completely done with humanity. "Can I go home now?"

"No, you're going to explain where you were," Natalya said, shoving Roderich forward. "Start with when you left Berlin."

"Before we hear that, I've got a question for you two," Basch interrupted; he was going to get his answer first. "What took you so long?"

"We were only gone for two hours," Francis said.

"Two and thirty minutes. More than it should've taken."

"Have you ever been to _Klein-Russland?"_ Francis asked. "I thought I was going to die on at least ten different occasions. And then Natalya decides to talk to this man that we meet up with for a good hour. In Russian. So, I was sitting there, bored out of my mind, while she" – he pointed to Natalya accusingly – "Didn't stop talking. And then she tells me Roderich _should_ be somewhere near a bridge over the Danube but we can't be for sure. So we go wander around the city at six in the morning looking for Roderich, until we finally find him. And then we came back to you."

"What a nice story," Natalya said, sitting down at the table. "Shame it isn't true. You see, this man and I were discussing Roderich's mission. Yes, he did kill seven generals, the last one alive died today from his injuries. And yes, the Gestapo is hunting for a Jean Traver in Marseilles. This man told me Roderich has a habit of going tothis particular bridge –"

"Who is this man and what does he know about me?" Roderich asked before she could continue. "Do I know him?"

"No, you don't know him. He's the leader of most organized Russian crime in Vienna –"

"I was in a room with the leader of the Russian mafia?" Francis snapped. "Why didn't you tell me that?!"

"Because you would've panicked like you're doing right now," Natalya said, tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette. "Anyway, this man has eyes everywhere. It's how he knew about Berlin and where Roderich would be. So, we go to said bridge _,_ and Roderich wasn't where we were told he would be. Then we have to actually look for him for a good hour until we find him. And may I mention that Francis complained the whole time."

"And how was that any different from my story?" Francis asked.

"I have a much better perspective on things than you do. Roderich, do you want to explain where you were? None of this would've had to happen if you'd come home on time," Natalya growled, looking over at the musician.

"You don't want to hear my story," Roderich said, taking a few steps back. "It's boring and –"

" _Tell. Us_." Natalya grabbed Roderich's wrist before he could get away, pulling him back to the table.

"I stayed in a hotel in Prague and then came back here. I was probably going to come home today before you two came and dragged me over here," Roderich said, taking Natalya's hand from his wrist.

"And why did you stay in that hotel?" Basch asked.

"I don't know, I was scared? I just killed seven people and maybe thought someone would be waiting for me in Vienna," Roderich said. "I didn't even use my own name at the hotel, if that makes you less mad or something."

"No, no, I'm actually not mad about you staying in the hotel. I would've liked to know where you were, but you did the right thing not to raise suspicions," Basch said. "If something would've gone wrong and they were hunting you down, it would've made for a lot easier escape. Next time you do something like that, though, tell me exactly where you are."

"So you're not mad?" Natalya asked, sounding almost disappointed that Roderich wasn't getting lectured.

"What do I have to be mad about? So, Roderich, how do you feel knowing you killed seven people?"

Roderich let his gaze fall to the floor. "Bad. And good. Mostly self-loathing. And I feel like I need a really long shower. And a drink."

Basch almost smiled – everything had gone over exactly as he'd expected. He'd set up the mission, a minor one in terms of missions, to test Roderich's mental strength. Before the man left, Mathias and Basch took bets on whether he'd crack or pull through. Mathias owed Basch two hundred marks. All that was left to do was see if Roderich could make it through the guilt that comes with killing.

"Can I go home now?" Roderich asked yet again.

"Sure. And thank you, Roderich, for following through with the mission," Basch said.

"You're welcome. Thank you for destroying my mental stability," Roderich said with a faked smile, turning to leave.

"Herr von Wolffe, do you want to walk me to school?" Lilli asked, going over to the man. "It isn't very far from your house and Basch doesn't like me going alone."

"Will they let a man carrying vodka come anywhere near a school?"

"Keep it here," Francis suggested. "Basch doesn't drink, and I can't stand vodka."

Roderich looked back at him. "What about Natalya? She's a Russian."

"Just because I'm Russian doesn't mean I'm a drunk like you," Natalya said. "I am not your stereotypical Russian woman."

"Is this some sort of plot to keep me from drinking?" Roderich asked, putting the bottle down on the table. "If it is, it's not going to work. That vodka isn't the only alcohol I own."

"We're taking little steps, _mon cher,"_ Francis said. "And yes, it is a plot."

"Suit yourself. I'm telling you right here, it isn't going to work. If you don't see me tomorrow, please, don't bother coming by my house. I'm probably alive. And I'll be back for my vodka. I paid good money for that."

Once the two were gone, Basch got up and locked the door. He wasn't going to work that day, not when the real work had begun. Basch pulled the curtains in the front window closed, going back over to the table.

"Is everything ready?" Francis asked in a low voice, his smile from before long gone.

"We just need the cyanide. You said Ivan was getting that for you?"

"You wouldn't believe what that man can do from a prison camp," Francis said. "Even though they're in quarantine. I'm going to pick it up tonight."

"I could've gotten it," Natalya added. "Why didn't you ask me?"

"Ivan has a special way with poisons and sedatives. And I trust him more than one of your Russian dealers," Francis snapped. "They're out to kill me."

"Isn't Ivan a Russian, though?" Natalya asked.

"Yes. You wouldn't know he's a Russian, considering how sweet he is. And he's actually trustworthy."

"So are we getting the cyanide or not?" Basch interrupted before the two could continue arguing. He didn't know about Natalya, but Francis had a bad habit of going on for hours about anything.

"Yes, we are," Francis said, looking away from Natalya.

"Then it looks like Operation Edelweiss is a go."

* * *

Stalag XVIII-A was silent for the first time in years.

Ivan wasn't sure if he liked the quiet.

And then again, he wasn't sure of anything.

He nudged the window open, looking around for guards. The yard was quiet, void of any sign of life. The barbed wire fences separating the compounds glistened in the early morning light, making Ivan wonder how everyone else was doing. Somewhere, across those fences, Sadik and Heracles were fighting in their native tongue, and Alfred was telling stories of his time in America while Arthur read another one of his Agatha Christie novels. They no longer cared about Ivan.

No one did. As long as he was in the Russian compound, no one would remember Ivan. He was nothing more than another face in the crowd, albeit healthier than most. Senior POW officer meant nothing more than he got his own room separate from the others. Ivan was another Ivan. One of the thousands of Soviets they wanted dead. One of the thousands of Soviets they refused to treat. One of the thousands of Soviets doomed to starve in the Russian compound.

Hoping to God that there wasn't anyone watching him, Ivan shoved handfuls of snow into an old rag. He quickly slid the window shut, making sure to lock it. The guards who did the inspections were quick to beat Ivan if anything was out of place – an unlocked window could mean a week in solitary, a week Ivan couldn't risk.

Ivan went back over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. He folded up the rag full of snow, placing it gently on Toris' forehead.

"How do you feel?" Ivan asked.

"Do you want my honest answer?" Toris' voice was hoarse and weak as he spoke, ruined by the night spent coughing.

"Lying won't make things any better."

"I'm scared. And not for my sake. I'm scared for Raivis."

Ivan didn't know what he could say. Raivis was one of the last ones to be sent to the hospital before the commandant decided to separate everyone by nationality. They hadn't heard anything about the boy in a long time, and none of the guards were planning on talking.

"I'm sure he is fine," Ivan said. "He is young. He can survive."

"What if I die? Who'll take care of him then?" Toris said, sounding like he could cry. "I have to be there for him. Without me, he'll…" His voice faded into the quiet of the stalag.

"I won't let you die," Ivan assured him, even though he knew there was a big chance Toris wasn't going to come out of it alive.

"I have so many things I still have to do." Toris looked up at the leaky roof, tears sliding down his face. "I can't die. I can't leave Raivis on his own and leave you by yourself, because who knows what you'll do all alone? Who knows what I'd do alone?"

Ivan wiped away Toris' tears, giving the man a tired smile. "You worry too much, _malyutka_. It isn't good for you."

"How am I not supposed to worry? We're nothing to them, Ivan. Nothing. They don't see us as humans anymore. It's a miracle you got Raivis into the hospital. But me? I'm just another brick in the wall," Toris muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Another worthless brick. They don't care about me or my story or even my name. I don't want to be a number forever."

"You aren't a number to me," Ivan said. "You're Toris."

"I am not Toris to the Germans. I am a number. They have no problem killing a number."

Ivan laid down beside him, knowing it was useless to try arguing. The Russians truly were nothing more than numbers to the Germans. Since they'd been separated from every else, Ivan had learned the full extent of German hate. And the commandant did nothing to stop the beatings and low rations; he stayed in his office, acting like there wasn't a thing wrong.

"I want to live," Toris whimpered, pressing close to Ivan. "I want to live. I don't want to end up like the rest of them. I've seen the bodies outside the fence. Please, sir, don't let me be one of them."

Ivan put an arm around Toris, stroking the man's dark hair. "I promise I won't let you die. I'm going to try and get you to the hospital today, alright? And if I can't, then I will take care of you. No matter what, you will not die."

"If I do die, will you promise to take care of Raivis for me?" Toris asked.

"If worst comes to worst, I will take care of him."

"And you won't kill yourself?"

Ivan smiled. "You know me too well. I promise I won't try anything like that."

"Good. I had to tell Feliks that, too. He's just like you. Couldn't live a day without me."

"Tell me more about Feliks," Ivan said, trying to take Toris' mind off of his almost inevitable death. If anything, it would ease his pain and make the whole ordeal a little less unbearable. It was the same strategy Ivan's mother used so many years ago, asking him to talk about sunflowers. Ivan didn't realize it at the time, but his mother was trying to ease him into death, knowing Ivan was as good as dead.

"His family came from Poland, and he's an only child. Feliks has blond hair and the prettiest green eyes that look just like a forest. And he's always laughing or smiling," Toris said wistfully. "We did everything together. I made him a matryoshka doll when we were young, and he used to write notes and hide them in the dolls. We'd use the tiny dolls to talk to each other when we were working, leaving them in a little hollow in the barn. I wish I kept some of those notes. They were hilarious.

"There was one day when I was maybe five that I couldn't find Feliks. So I went to the river, and he was there, crying. And I didn't know what to do, so I did what my mother always did for me. I kissed him. I didn't know it was wrong to kiss another boy, I was little and naïve and too sympathetic. Feliks said that when he grew up, he wanted to marry me, and his mother told him that he couldn't, so that's why he was crying. And I told him that we could run away and get married and have this life we weren't supposed to live even though I was only five. And he said we would have to wait until we were older.

"I wonder if he still wants to take me up on that offer," Toris whispered. "I don't think I do. Maybe a long time ago when I didn't know anything…only, now it seems so wrong. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. All I know is that I'm probably going to die in some miserable prisoner-of-war camp and I'm never going to see Feliks again." He closed his eyes, eyebrows curved up in concern. "If you make it out of here, can you bring my letters to Feliks?"

"Of course," Ivan said with a smile.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I rant on about things like that."

"There's no reason to be sorry. I found your story cute."

Before Toris could say anything, three sharp knocks interrupted him – roll call. Outside of his room, Ivan could hear the rest of the prisoners scrambling to attention. Ivan got to his feet, grabbing his coat from the end of the bed. Punishment for being late was severe, so Ivan couldn't joke around like he used to in Barrack Two. There was no joking in the Russian section.

"Don't leave," Toris said as Ivan opened the door.

"I've got to. If I don't, there's no way I'll get you to the hospital," Ivan hastily explained; he only had a minute to get into place. "I'll be back, alright? You stay here and do not, under any circumstances, make any noise."

"I'm scared alone. No, no, no, don't leave me by myself," Toris pleaded. " _Prašom, prašom, pone, nepalikite manęs čia."_

Ivan sighed – Toris had slipped back into delirious Lithuanian. " _Viskas bus gerai,"_ he said before slamming the door and running out to roll call.

He barely made it into his place at the front of the group in time, earning himself a slap in the face from one of the guards. Ivan tried his best not to flinch, knowing flinching meant more beating. Thankfully the guard stalked away after the first hit, calling out last names from a clipboard.

"Dietschenko?"

"Dead," someone answered.

"Novikov?"

"Dead."

"Bandarenko?"

Ivan held his breath, praying the answer wouldn't be "dead". He hated morning roll calls, as their only purpose seemed to be to remind the Russians that every night, half a barrack died. Maybe, just maybe –

"Sick," a voice called out.

"Well, can he stand?" the guard growled.

There wasn't an answer to that one.

"Scholl!" the guard said, pointing to the barrack. A young-looking private saluted him, going into the barrack.

 _Please don't bring out Toris, please don't bring out Toris, oh, God, don't let him bring out Toris,_ Ivan said to himself, trying to ignore the crashes coming from inside the barrack. He'd seen what happened to the sick too many times. If the guard found Toris, the man was dead. There would be no chance to save him, not if Ivan wanted to stay alive.

"Get out here!" the private shouted, throwing a man to the ground. Ivan knew not to look. Not that he wanted to. He stared blankly ahead, the man's cries for help and the snap of bones blurring into white noise. How long was he going to have to listen to the white noise? Until the war ended? Until he starved to death or got sick or did himself in?

And then there was the gunshot.

Everything fell quiet after the gunshot.

There were a few more names called after that, a few more lost lives and one or two survivors. Ivan made sure to enunciate perfectly when they called his name, dropping his accent as much as he could. Some sad part of him still hoped that if he could prove he had a little bit of Aryan blood in him, someone might let him go back to Barrack Two.

"Laurinaitis?" the guard said.

Ivan took a deep breath. "Dead," he said, exactly as he'd rehearsed so many times that morning.

The guard didn't even look his way, continuing on with roll call. Ivan forced back a smile – he'd gotten through the first part of his plan flawlessly. There was only one more step, one step that could end his life.

After they were dismissed, Ivan went straight to the fence that separated the Russians from the British. He scanned the groups of men standing in lines, searching for Arthur's bright blond hair or Alfred's RAF uniform. Where were the two?

"Oh, my God, is that you Colonel?"

Ivan immediately tensed up, startled to find Alfred standing right in front of him. How did he miss the American?

"Shit, they're doin' a number to you in there," Alfred said. "Are you even allowed to talk to me?"

"No," Ivan said, turning away from the man. If a guard caught him talking, it would be the same punishment as every other Russian. Shot in the back. His rank no longer protected him. "I shouldn't even be here. But I need a favour."

"Hey, man, are you alright?" Alfred asked, sounding too worried about Ivan's sake. Usually, he wanted him dead. Was there a shred of sympathy in the American?

"Go get the commandant, Alfred. That's an order from your superior officer, so don't you dare deny me. Tell him I have information on Roderich von Wolffe in exchange for help."

* * *

 **History Notes:**

 **Quarantine at Stalag XVIII-A: In December of 1941, there was a huge typhus outbreak in the stalag, resulting in a quarantine. Few could come into the camp, and no one could go out until March of 1942. Typhus is an extremely deadly disease common in places like jails and third-world areas. It usually occurs during wars and famines. Epidemic typhus is caused by lice and is characterized by a high fever and rash, and 60% of those infected die. Thankfully, you can only get typhus once, but you're lucky to survive it untreated.**

 **Racial Studies: Studies of "pure" and "impure" races were encouraged in Nazi Germany – most, if not all schools offered some sort of class about them. Racial studies started at a very young age, and children were constantly reminded of their racial duties to the Reich. Children were taught what sort of people to avoid, who to marry to produce Aryan children, what races were "worthy", and about hereditary diseases. They would measure their heads and noses with tape measures, and check their eye and hair colour with charts. Children also made family trees showing off their biological heritage to show they were "pure".**

 **Separation in Stalag XVIII-A: Stalag XVIII-A was separated into areas for each nationality, and had been since 1939 when it accepted its first prisoners. Every area but the Russian area followed the Geneva Convention. Because Russia did not agree to the Geneva Convention, the Germans took it as a sign that they could do whatever they wanted to the Soviet POW's. Three million Soviets died in German custody. At Stalag XVIII-A during the typhus outbreak, the majority of men killed were Soviets due to the bad conditions they were living in.**

 **Yes, I know I made a mistake. But at this point, I cannot fix it without tearing up everything I've already done. I'm taking a creative liberty here, though, as it is fanfiction. So sue me.**

 **Russian last names called out: This is not so much a history note as something I would like to mention. The three last names Dietschenko, Novikov, and Bandarenko are the names of real prisoners who died in November of 1941 in Stalag XVIII-A. After November, the recorded dead seem to stop.**

 **Translations:**

 _ **Prašom, prašom, pone, nepalikite manęs čia**_ **– Please, please, sir, do not leave me here**

 _ **Viskas bus gerai –**_ **Everything will be fine**

 **Big thank-you's to** EllaAwkward **,** GoneInASecond **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **! (Oh, my God, you're alive!) Thank you for supporting this historically inaccurate fic!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	15. Feroce

If Gilbert had to authorize one more hospital admission, he was going to scream.

He scribbled his name in the bottom corner of a page – it felt like his thousandth signature that day – and pushed the paper aside. Gilbert couldn't read what he was signing anymore, and he didn't care. The words on the pages were more like smears after two days without sleeping, and he certainly wasn't going to take the time to read them. All Gilbert could do was hope he was signing the papers for the hospital and not agreeing to be put in front of a firing squad.

It wasn't Gilbert's fault the newest POWs brought typhus with them. And yet, he was the one to be punished and yelled at for it. The higher-ups handed Gilbert a box full of paperwork and told him to fill everything out, forced him into quarantine and segregation, and gave him a new book regarding Soviet prisoners. As if that wasn't enough, they had him order physicals for every guard and send the weaker ones off to "training" – presumably the Russian front. When Gilbert told them about the lack of guards, they sent in new men from Munich who were a little too eager to shoot a Soviet prisoner, ramping up the death rates.

"Gilbert? I know you're busy, but I think you made a big mistake," Elizabeta called from the other room, her voice as tired as Gilbert imagined his would be. "Can I come in?"

"What sort of mistake? If it's nothing too important, let it slip through."

"You cut the Soviets' rations again."

"That's not a mistake."

Elizabeta didn't bother with formalities when she came into the office, slamming a folder on top of Gilbert's endless paperwork. She didn't say anything, instead putting her finger on a blurry number. Gilbert waited for a moment, hoping she would go back to her desk. When Elizabeta didn't budge, he knew he was going to have to cough up an answer or risk more misery.

"Berlin wants me to cut the rations again. So I did. They gave me a book and said that if I didn't follow it exactly, I'd find myself with a noose around my neck," Gilbert said. "Now, what would you rather have? A dead husband or a few dead Soviets?"

"A few? There is at least one man dying every day in the Soviet compound," Elizabeta snapped. "And look at this number. I have never been a doctor, but even I know a man cannot survive on 700 calories in the middle of winter, never mind summer. And what's this here about using the death penalty 'generously?' Are you really letting men be killed for being late to work details?"

"So you want me to baby the Soviets and get myself shot? You want me to treat them like they're Germans? Listen, Elizabeta, I'm not going to risk my life for a bunch of damn Russians. I may not hate them as much as the Nazis want me to; they still aren't worth my time. They're strong and smart, they should be able to figure out the rules without me interfering."

"Human lives ' _aren't worth your time'_?"

"They're not exactly humans –"

"How are they not humans?" Elizabeta asked, her words quiet and trembling. "Don't they do everything humans do? Do they not eat and speak and breathe like us? Are they some sort of wild animal? If so, why are we keeping animals in a prisoner-of-war camp? Just because they're not perfect doesn't mean they're inhuman. Take yourself for example. Are you an animal?"

"No, I was born a Prussian and intend to die that way. Why are you so defensive of the Soviets?" Gilbert pushed the folder away, going back to his paperwork. He didn't have time to argue about mistreatment, not if he ever wanted to sleep again.

"I'm sorry I have a sense of what's right. You're killing real people, Gilbert. They aren't numbers."

"They are nothing _more_ than numbers."

"I can't believe you," Elizabeta growled, snatching the folder off of his desk. She clenched it in her trembling hands, her knuckles turning white. "I thought you might have some shred of sympathy in you. Now I can see I was wrong. You're exactly like the rest of them, Gilbert. Sick. You and your brother, you'd jump off a cliff if Hitler told you to. Sometimes…sometimes I can't see why I ever fell in love with you."

"Because I'm a helluva lot better than von Wolffe and you are fully aware of that," Gilbert said, grabbing another form and scrawling his initials on a line.

Elizabeta turned to leave, her heels clicking on the floor in sharp staccato rhythm. She paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder at Gilbert. "Roderich wouldn't let Berlin tell him to kill anyone," she said, giving Gilbert a faked smile.

"Then why don't you go back to him? I'm sure that would make his day," Gilbert said.

"I should."

"Yes, you should. Leave me here in my typhus-ridden stalag, and go back to your ex-husband. When the Gestapo comes and arrests you two, don't come crawling back to me. I will have no interest in saving your life if you leave me."

"Why would they arrest us?"

Gilbert smiled, folding his hands and pretending to look professional. "He's a Jew, isn't he? Or a resistance member or a Communist or something that Hitler wouldn't be pleased to find out about."

"Are you back to this again?" Elizabeta groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "Get over him already. There's nothing wrong with Roderich. He's a normal person who happens to be in a much better position than you are. Move on with your life and accept that you will never be like Roderich, no matter how hard you try. God, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were in love with him."

"Who's in love with who now?"

Gilbert looked up again – that wasn't Elizabeta's voice. Alfred came into the doorway between the office and front room, flashing Gilbert a crooked smile. "Hey, Commandant, haven't seen you in forever. Did you hear we've got a war goin' on?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But seriously, what were you two talking about? Is there another affair?"

"It's none of your concern," Elizabeta said, her face red with shame. Despite never telling anyone, the whole camp seemed have heard about her affair with Gilbert. "Aren't you supposed to be restricted to barracks?"

"You'd be amazed what a bar of chocolate can buy you," Alfred said. "And don't freak out, I'm not sick. Got typhus once in jail, can't get it again. So, hey, Commandant, I'm supposed to tell you that Ivan wants to talk to you."

"Tell him I'm busy. And you shouldn't be talking to Ivan," Gilbert snapped.

"He came an' talked to me first. I think you'll want to have a word with him. He says he knows something about von Wolffe and is pretty damn willing to talk."

Gilbert almost smiled for a moment, grabbing his coat from where he'd thrown it over a chair. "You said von Wolffe had nothing to hide," he said as he pushed past Elizabeta, following Alfred out into the front room. "We'll see about that."

Elizabeta didn't say anything in reply, refusing to acknowledge that she was wrong.

The stalag was much quieter than Gilbert remembered – and he wasn't sure if he liked it or hated it. Something felt so wrong about the place, something Gilbert couldn't put his finger on. There was complete silence as Alfred led Gilbert over to the Soviet compound, not one shout or insult. It reminded Gilbert of a ghost town, empty and quiet and almost completely dead. If there weren't any guards, Gilbert would've thought Alfred was the only other person alive.

"I'm not allowed to go in there," Alfred said quietly when they reached the gates to the Soviet compound, trying to keep the eerie silence mostly intact. "Whatever Ivan has to say to you, it's real important. I hope to see you again, Commandant. It's lonely out here without you."

"And I hope to see you transferred."

"Thanks, I really missed your passive-aggressive comments," Alfred said, heading back to the British compound. Gilbert watched him for a moment, almost wanting to call out for him to come back. He didn't know if he could handle the unfitting quiet alone.

"Herr Commandant, what are you doing here?" a guard said, snapping Gilbert out of his thoughts. He quickly turned to face the guard on the other side of the fence, trying to look as awake as he could on twenty minutes of sleep.

"I need to speak with Colonel Braginsky," he ordered.

"I'll go get –"

"Let me in. Do not bring Braginsky to me."

The guard stared at Gilbert like he'd just shot the Führer. "Um, sir, I don't want you to risk getting sick."

"I will be fine," Gilbert said.

"I don't know, sir…"

"I promise you, you are not putting me at risk by letting me in," Gilbert assured the man; he was lying straight to the guard's face.

The guard knew it was worthless to try and argue with someone as stubborn as Gilbert, undoing the lock on the gate. He slid it open barely enough for the commandant to get through, mumbling something about a new commandant. Gilbert didn't bother to thank the man, walking past him without another word.

As he went deeper into the compound, Gilbert kept his eyes low to avoid hungry and livid glares. The dark eyes bored into him, reminding him that he was hated beyond reason. He heard a few words snarled, broken bits of Russian that Gilbert didn't want to translate. Their words got crueler the further he went into the compound, each barrack filled with more hatred than the last.

And just when he thought someone was going to come out of a barrack with a gun and end everything, he came to Barrack Twenty-Seven. Kicking the snow off his boots, Gilbert pushed open the door without any warning. Almost immediately he started gagging, pulling a handkerchief from his coat and holding it over his nose. The scent of death and sickness was thick in the barrack; how could anyone live there? Even through the handkerchief it was strong, enough to make bile burn in the back of Gilbert's throat.

Forcing himself back into composure, Gilbert marched past the hollow men. He could feel their empty stares, the broken and weak soldiers silently hoping it wasn't their final day. Gilbert went up to the small back room without once looking at anyone, knocking gently on the door. The spirit of the room somehow got darker as the men realized who Gilbert had come for.

"You came," Ivan said when he opened the door, his voice withdrawn and hoarse. "You actually came."

He ushered Gilbert into the tiny office, shutting the door behind him. Gilbert warily removed the handkerchief from his face, watching as Ivan went over to the bed. A thin figure was curled up beneath the blanket, dark brown hair tangled and stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"I need a favour. You take Toris to the hospital, and I will answer two questions about Roderich von Wolffe with complete honesty," Ivan said, looking back at Gilbert. "Please, Herr Commandant, I do not want him to die. I can't keep him alive myself."

" _Man viskas bus gerai_. _Aš stiprus_ ," he heard Toris mumble, the man sounding much worse than Gilbert imagined.

" _Jūs esate labai stipri. Žinoma jums bus gerai, vaikeli_ ," Ivan said in a soft voice, stroking Toris' hair. "He is delirious," he explained to Gilbert without taking his eyes off of Toris. "Cannot speak Russian anymore. I am not asking for much, sir. I just want help."

Gilbert couldn't answer. On one hand, helping Ivan could get Gilbert the information he needed for Roderich's arrest. And on the other, he could be shot for helping a Soviet. He didn't have any idea where his loyalties lied – with the Reich or with Ivan?

Toris cried out something in his native tongue, grabbing Ivan's shirt and pulling him close. The man held Toris to his chest, stroking his hair and saying calm words as Toris kept screaming, his sentences blurring into a mess of sounds and sobs.

"What's he saying?" Gilbert asked, taking a few steps forward. He'd never seen Toris so desperate for help, or for anything. Truthfully, he'd never seen the man cry before.

" _It hurts_ ," Ivan translated, his words as frantic as Toris'. " _It hurts so bad. Please, sir, do something. Help me. They must be coming for me again and making me hurt. They know they made a mistake. I'm going to Auschwitz. They're going to hurt me and torture me and make me suffer. Not again, not again, not again."_

"What is he going off about?"

"They tortured him, sir. When the Nazis captured him, they did so many horrible things to him. Worse than what you think I've done to him. Much worse things. Because he wouldn't speak, they tried to send him to Auschwitz. And then he told them everything," Ivan said. "He must think they're coming back for him."

"I'll…I'll get him in," Gilbert said abruptly. "Don't tell me anymore. I don't want to hear it."

He didn't know why he agreed to it. Getting a Soviet into the Wolfsburg hospital could be lethal, and Gilbert wasn't prepared to die. But some part of him, some horrible, wretched part, felt _bad_ for Ivan and Toris. He'd never felt sympathy for an _Untermensch_ before; it felt wrong and sort of good and certainly illegal. He couldn't help it, though, not after hearing Toris' rant. Gilbert knew of the Auschwitz incident – it was nothing more than a footnote in Toris' papers. He'd never heard of the prelude to the Auschwitz threat, and he didn't want to hear any more.

"Are you serious?" Ivan asked, doubting Gilbert's sudden cooperation. Who wouldn't?

"Yes. I promise."

" _Ar girdėjai, kad mažylis? Jūs ketinate būti bauda. Jie atsižvelgiant jus į ligoninę,"_ Ivan said with a smile.

 _"Aš nenoriu eiti. Ne be tavęs. Jie mane ir man atsiųsti atgal į stovyklą, kankinti mane ir daryti eksperimentus ir mane nužudyti su jų poilsio."_

"He says he doesn't want to go without me," Ivan said, wiping at Toris' tears with his sleeve.

"Then I'll get you in somehow," Gilbert said. "Now, about the questions. Where was Roderich's father really born?"

Ivan smile faded into a frown, his eyebrows furrowed together. "I can't answer that one. His father wanted me dead, never told me anything. I can tell you that he fought in the Great War, in the 27th regiment. Some mountain regiment."

"You better hope to your Russian god that you're not lying," Gilbert said. "I will take that as an answer, though. And what is von Wolffe's real last name?"

"As far as I can remember, it was von Wolffe. There was one night, though, that we couldn't sleep. So the two of us went downstairs and heard his father talking about someone named 'Edelstein'. He went on to talk about someone else and how lucky they were that they got their name changed before someone found out."

That was all Gilbert needed to hear.

"Get Toris up. I'm taking you two to the hospital, now. Don't say anything to anyone. Do not say one word. You two are German for today. I am sending a twenty-four-hour guard with you as well, so do not try to escape," Gilbert said without a hint of emotion, already imagining von Wolffe's arrest. And Elizabeta said he had nothing to hide.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

* * *

Roderich hung the phone back up on its hook, going over to the cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of scotch and a shot glass from his liquor cabinet, taking a quick glance at the clock. Was 9:47 a.m. too early to be drunk? By most men's standards, the answer would be yes. Only, they weren't working for Goebbels and had to finish a propaganda piece in a week. So he figured Goebbels' phone call evened out the playing field.

He twisted the cap from the bottle, watching it fall to the scratched floor. Not that he would bother to pick it up. Alcohol was gone too fast in his house – the half-empty bottle of scotch would be empty by the end of the day. And then again, he never bothered to clean anything up. Elizabeta had always been the one to keep the house in perfect order, and once she left, Roderich gave up. Everything was in a sort of chaotic organization, disastrous to the rest of the world and perfect to him. Roderich left everything where he could find it, even if it wasn't its "place."

Which meant he didn't put anything away.

Roderich poured himself a shot, wiping the scotch that spilled over the rim away with his sleeve. It was one of those mornings where he didn't care about his appearance, still in the white shirt from the day before and boxers. And he was almost sure scotch didn't stain, so what did it matter?

"Hey, Roderich!" a voice shouted from outside, accompanied by a few knocks on the door. "You awake yet?"

It took Roderich a second to recognize Mathias' voice – what was the man doing at his house? Roderich figured whatever Mathias had to tell him couldn't be good, so he quickly downed the shot and grabbed a pair of pants from a laundry basket he'd left to trip over on the stairs. With all the grace of the drunk he was, Roderich somehow pulled on the pants and got to the door.

"Ha! Look at that, he just rolled out of bed. Pay up," Mathias said as Roderich opened the door, elbowing Basch. Roderich couldn't decide what to be more concerned about; the fact that Basch and Mathias showed up at his doorstep at nearly ten in the morning or that they brought Natalya and Francis with them.

"He always looks like that," Basch snapped, shifting the weight of a box under his arm. "How long have you been awake?"

"And a _Guten Morgen_ to you. What are you doing?" Roderich asked. He didn't think Basch knew where his house was, let alone Mathias and Natalya. Had Francis led them on their quest to make Roderich miserable?

"We need to talk, _mon cher_ ," Francis explained over Mathias and Basch's fight. "And Basch's house is not safe anymore. His neighbours are very suspicious of you and Natalya coming over so often. We worry they might call the Gestapo. And your house is safer than any of ours."

"You do realize that Ludwig lives a few streets down, right? And he's prone to stopping by my house for no reason?"

"Well, ja," Mathias said, shoving a handful of bills into his pocket. "So if he comes over, we'll make up a lie. Simple as that."

"Or we could kill him," Natalya suggested.

"Um, let's not do that," Roderich said, holding open the door for them. "Sorry I didn't clean up or anything," he apologized after Natalya came inside, locking the door behind him. "I wasn't expecting company for the next twenty or so years. And you showed up rather unexpectedly."

"I couldn't call you, not with the Gestapo watching your phone line," Basch said as he set the box down on the kitchen table. "So this is your home, huh? I would've expected it to be a bit cleaner, considering how damn strict you are." He paused for a second, looking around the room. Roderich already knew Basch was picking out all the wrong details and preparing a lecture.

"Have you already been drinking?" Natalya asked, going over to the scotch on the countertop. She picked up the bottle, looking over the label. Her eyes lit up for a second; hopefully not a sign of an idea.

"I had time for one shot before you…" Roderich faltered, helplessly watching as Natalya emptied the bottle into the sink. There went a week's worth of pay he'd never get back, never mind the scotch.

"You are done being a drunk," she said, putting the empty bottle back on the countertop. "This is what you would call an intervention."

"Partially an intervention," Francis corrected.

"It's still an intervention."

"Can you intervene without wasting my alcohol?" Roderich growled, getting in between Natalya and the cabinet where the rest of the liquor was. "I worked for that, you know. More than you will ever work."

"Whatever. Natalya, sit down. Roderich, get your ass over here," Basch said, motioning for the two to join them at the table. Roderich had no choice to resist, as Basch wasn't in a tolerating mood and wasn't going to put up with any arguments. He watched as the man pushed aside sheet music and half-finished pieces, flinching as a few fluttered to the floor.

Basch looked over at Francis expectantly; Francis pulled a little tin from his pocket. He took five white pills from inside, handing them to everyone at the table.

"Welcome to Team Wolf of Operation Edelweiss. This is cyanide," Basch said, holding up the pill. "We've never had to use it before. Surprise, this operation is dangerous. If you are caught in a position where there is no way of escaping, I expect you to kill yourself. I will do the same. Keep this pill with you at all times, especially when you think you're safe. Are we clear?"

Roderich couldn't bring himself to do anything more than nod.

"Good." Basch reached into the box on the table, removing two books. He gave one to Natalya, pushing a weathered copy of _Mein Kampf_ towards Roderich. "Those," he said, gesturing to the book in Roderich's hands, "Are going to be your lifeline for who knows how long. Every mission you are part of will depend on those books. Lose them and I will be forcing the cyanide down your throats. Any questions?"

"Why does mine say _Atrocities of the Soviets?"_ Natalya asked as she held up the bruised book, her almost-frown threatening to slip into a full scowl.

"Irony, dear," Francis said with a smile.

"Next time you do something ironic, you're going to find my foot up your ass."

"And we're already starting on a good note," Basch muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, memorize those books. Do not share anything you read in them with anyone outside of us five. We are the only ones who know about this operation, and I want to make sure it stays that way. I haven't told Lilli, and I'm sure Mathias hasn't told Lukas."

"Not a word," Mathias said proudly – he was well known for not being able to keep a secret for more than two seconds.

"We are about to start the largest resistance movement in history," Basch said, his voice laced with excitement and fear. "So far, there are four teams. Team Valkyrie in Germany, Team Varpulis in Czechoslovakia, and Team Weles in Poland. Together, we may very well bring down the Reich or get hundreds of people killed. It's risky, considering most of our success rides on an alcoholic."

"You can't mean me," Roderich said after a long pause.

"We're riding a lot of this plan on you, Roddy. You've got to stop drinking, get real comfortable with Natalya and Ludwig, and kill a few Nazis indirectly," Mathias said, putting a hand on Roderich's shoulder. "It's a lot to take on. I think you can do it. Considering what you go through every day, Operation Edelweiss won't be a problem."

"You're almost the leader in this, Roderich. Which is why we named ourselves Team Wolf. Everyone else goes about their semi-normal lives, and you have to be more than you already are." Basch took _Mein Kampf_ from Roderich's hands, opening it to a certain page. Instead of the usual anti-Semitic rantings, someone had painted over the pages and written in delicate cursive. Individual measures of music were scrawled beside the margin, cursive explaining what each one meant.

"You are going to be both our communicator and distractor. When we have a wide-scale attack, you will add one of these passages to your piece," Basch said, giving the book back to Roderich. "Each team has a music freak like you, someone who understands it a hell of a lot better than any of us do. They'll be able to decode it from whatever propaganda they're putting on the radio and act accordingly."

"And you're positive no one else has these codes?" Roderich asked, gently closing the book. He turned it over so Hitler's face was hidden from sight; he'd always found something about the man unsettling.

"Positive."

"Now for the fun part," Mathias said. "This operation's going to bring in a ton of families who need to get to Switzerland. We're actually getting people out of ghettos. And we're going to bring them through this area. The problem is, we've got two Gestapo men who patrol here on a regular basis."

"Those two are very interested in you when you're drunk, no?" Francis asked, twisting a blond curl around his finger.

"One of them blatantly offered to drink with me. I'd call them desperate," Roderich answered.

"Alright, that's perfect. What we want you to do is take up their offers whenever we need you to. How much can you drink and stay relatively sober?" Mathias asked.

"Maybe like, five beers? Six on a good night?"

"Well, congratulations, Roderich, you're now officially a lightweight," Mathias said. "You've got to pretend to lose it at around five. I mean, we want you to act pass-out and kiss a stranger drunk. Give whoever you're drinking with a bunch of bullshit until we the time that we tell you, maybe longer if something goes wrong. If you want to have some real fun with it, tell them unimportant details from your childhood. As long as you don't flat out tell them you're a Jew, I think anything'll go."

"And Roderich, we'd like you to meet your new Parisian girlfriend." Francis pulled a stack of papers from the box, handing them over to Roderich. "Adeline Beaulieu, from the heart of Paris," he said, gesturing to Natalya. "You found her when you had that concert in Paris and kept her secret for months. Very romantic, cliché lovers. Everything you should know about her is in those papers; memorize them and then burn them. Adeline is going to accompany you on a few of your performances. We'll get you two a hotel room and –"

"I am not doing anything more with that man than I have to," Natalya growled. "He's a divorced man probably dying for some sort of action again. I'd rather cut out my own heart than get any more romantic with him."

"And you think you're any better? You've tried to kill me at least twice in one day," Roderich said, hiding his red face with his hands. "I may be desperate, but I'm not so desperate as to look to someone like you for love."

"Keep telling yourself that. I have a good idea as to what you're planning on doing."

"Why did you choose me to be with this woman? Better yet, why me for this whole damn plan?" Roderich asked, wishing he'd never got mixed up with any of them.

"Because you're so painfully unbelievable it just might work," Basch said.

"Painfully?"

"I may trust you, however, that doesn't mean I like you. Even thinking about you hurts," Basch explained with a smile. "Anyway, think about yourself. You're an alcoholic and divorced Jewish composer who works for Hitler and is part of the resistance. And you've got Gestapo connections. If you weren't you and I told you that, you'd think it was a joke, right? You've got so much going wrong for you that this is bound to go right."

"That and you're Hitler's friend and can't get arrested," Mathias added. "Not to ruin the moment or anything."

* * *

 _Traitor._

Ivan dug his fingers into his arm.

 _Traitor._

He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.

 _Traitor._

"Hold on a second, Luddy. Braginsky, are you alright? You look like you're going to pass out."

Gilbert's voice snapped Ivan out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the dimly lit office. He offered a sheepish smile as an answer, looking back down at his dirty boots. How many more hours would he be stuck in the office, listening as Gilbert talked to his brother about Roderich? How many more times would he be reminded that he was Roderich's Judas, his sell-out? How many more times would he curse himself and wish he'd never agreed to the plan because Toris was as good as dead anyway?

"If you're going to pass out, do it somewhere else…What? Oh, I was talking to Braginsky. Ja, ja, send me those," he heard Gilbert say, his words ecstatic for so late at night. "I'll take the pictures, too."

Ivan didn't mean to hand over everything about Roderich to the commandant. He hadn't meant to do anything more than help Toris. And now Toris had been sent to a hospital several towns over, the doctors telling Gilbert there was little they could do to save him. It was too late. Ivan was always too late. Too late to get off the train, too late to leave, too late to save Toris, too late to see he'd ruined Roderich von Wolffe.

They'd sent Ivan away from the Wolfsburg hospital with nothing more than a false promise and broken heart. Before he left, Ivan held Toris and whispered to him in soft Lithuanian, kissed his forehead and assured him for the thousandth time that day that everything was going to be fine. He had to be dragged away from Toris by the guard, Ivan knowing it was the last time he was going to see him. As if that didn't sting enough, the guard took a sobbing Ivan to the commandant's office and told him Gilbert wanted his help. For hours he'd cried in Gilbert's office, listening on as the world fell apart.

"You're the best, Luddy. Don't know what I'd do without you…Ja, I probably would be dead. So I'll see you tomorrow?"

Gilbert's brotherly rambling faded into white noise, the same white noise Ivan had heard for years. The white noise of pain and suffering, of death and laughter, sickness and hatred. Everything blurred into nothing.

" _Auf Wiedersehen_ ," Gilbert said, hanging the phone up. He kept quiet for a moment, looking over the sorry being in front of him. "I'm putting you in solitary confinement tonight. Not for punishment – I don't want to raise any suspicions in your barrack. I may have you moved back to Barrack Two, along with everyone else. You and your accomplices don't seem to be handling the separation very well."

Ivan didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to. How could he go back to Barrack Two if Toris wasn't there?

"Listen, I get that you're torn up about Toris right now, but you need to get over it."

"Get over it?" Ivan choked, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Get over his death? Toris is dying, sir. The only person who's ever cared about me is dying. The only person who bothered to learn my real name. He actually cared. And I'm supposed to forget any of this ever happened? I'm supposed to get over the fact that I'm losing the one person I had left? I'm supposed to accept that I sold out my own brother for Toris and he's going to die?"

"People are disposable, Braginsky. Maybe Toris wasn't meant to be the person he was," Gilbert said so calmly it hurt. He had no idea what hells Ivan had wandered through, how Toris was the saving grace in his mad world.

"He is. He is supposed to be with me until the very end. And if this is his end, then it must be my end."

"Oh, God, we're not going back to this suicidal phase, are we?" Gilbert asked, holding his head. "Grow up –"

" _You_ grow up! You get out of this 'I hate Soviets' phase. That's why you're telling me to get over him, isn't it?" Ivan said, his voice a trembling, cracking mess. "He's a Soviet. You could care less about his feelings. You could care less about mine. At least I'm not some brainwashed Nazi, I'm not another damn brick in Adolf Hitler's wall. I know a human when I see one, and you certainly aren't one, sir."

Gilbert smiled. "I was always told the opposite. You aren't the human."

"I'm an animal. A gay, sex crazed demon. Absolutely disgusting. Toris is not like me. He's a person. He is a man with feelings and thoughts and so much more than you'll ever have. Would it hurt you to be concerned about him?"

"Why should I be concerned about another dead man? Why should I waste my time on one more corpse?"

"Because he wastes his time on everyone else. He took care of you when he came here; for God's sake, he taught you Russian!" Ivan snarled, clenching his hands into tight fists. "He didn't care that you were the enemy. Toris adopted Raivis, kept everyone from ripping each other apart, and stopped me from doing anything rash. So if you could pretend to care about him, that would be wonderful!"

"What can I do? He's dying, Ivan. I can't undo something like that. Sympathy won't save his life," Gilbert said. "I want him to be alright, I truly do. The difference between you and myself is that I can see when something cannot be fixed. Try to move on as fast as you can, and then it won't hurt so bad. If you linger on something like death for so long, you'll never forget. And trust me, it's better to forget than to remember."

"What would you know about death?"

"My mother died when I was ten. Ludwig's still hung up on it, I can tell. Me, I moved on faster than I should've. Father's dying, too. Hell, I've almost died a good twenty times in my life. Death's something you got to work around. It happens all the time, and there isn't much good crying over it. It's better to look heartless than to suffer for the rest of your life."

"Is that what you Nazis think now, that being heartless is respected?" Ivan asked. "You think people will see you as stronger because you don't care about people's emotions? You think the Reich will like you because you're going to such lengths to cut down Roderich and make my people feel like animals?"

"No one likes me, including the Reich. I am a lone wolf, and always will be. Elizabeta? I don't have any idea how long she's going to stay. No matter what I do, it will not make someone like me," he said with such an air of confidence it hurt. "Hunting down Roderich's past is merely revenge. He hurt Elizabeta, and I'm going to return the favour."

"He never hurt anyone. You're the one hurting people."

Gilbert shook his head, making Ivan feel like a child again. "He hurt her in the worst way possible. He forgot about Elizabeta. The Führer put so much work on him that he didn't have time for his wife, or so he says. I've always thought there was something else; a dark secret, another woman. The only thing Elizabeta wanted to do was have a life with Roderich, and he wouldn't give that to her. Which is why she came to me."

"Maybe you're wrong," Ivan said. "What if she was the problem? I can't ever see Roderich mistreating someone like Elizabeta."

"You could very well be right. But I wouldn't go against my wife, no matter what. Even if she killed someone, I'd stay by her side until the end. And the only place I see Roderich is with a gun to his head." Gilbert grabbed a stack of papers, shoving them into an envelope. "Which he soon will be. Thanks to what you told me this morning and what I got out of you tonight."

"What did you get out of me?"

Gilbert got up from his desk, his grin cold and mocking. "You're weak, Braginsky. I can get to you so easily when you're torn up like this. I didn't want to use you, and you made me," he said. "I do care about you, though. To be honest, when I saw you today with those Soviets…it didn't look right. I don't want see you with them."

"Where do you want me to be, then? Locked up?" Ivan asked, feeling the tears come back to his eyes. He hated crying in front of Gilbert; he didn't want to seem so fragile.

"I want you to be happy. Although you annoy the shit out of me, I kind of like you," Gilbert said. "Never mind that. I like you, a lot. Without you, I'd probably be the same person I was after the accident. You put some kind of fire back into me when you made me mad. Maybe we're good for each other."

"Maybe."

"Can I trust you in here alone for a few minutes while I go get a guard?" Gilbert asked. "There's no use trying to steal something."

Ivan nodded, wiping at his eyes yet again.

The minute Gilbert was out of earshot, he broke down into hysterics.

* * *

"So this is how you write music?" Basch asked, blatantly ignoring how many times Roderich had told him to shut up. Roderich didn't bother to answer his question, tying a quarter note to an eighth and moving on to the next measure. Giving Basch a reply gave him some sort of satisfaction, something no one had any interest in giving the man.

"It looks weird," Basch continued. "Are you sure that's going to sound alright?"

"What do you care?" Roderich immediately cursed himself for saying something, scratching an angry looking sixteenth note into the page.

"Uh, this piece is going to bring on the ruin of an empire? It should be absolutely perfect."

"Maybe it won't be," Roderich said. "Perfect is boring. Imperfect is what makes an interesting piece."

"Are you trying to get philosophical with me?" Basch asked, leaning over for a closer look at Roderich's work. He put his finger beside a half note, looking up at Roderich. "You wrote that one wrong."

"And since when did _you_ know anything about music?" Roderich growled as he pulled his composition book away from Basch. He nearly screamed when he saw the smudged ink; he would've if Lilli wasn't sleeping in the next room. Roderich quickly scribbled over the smudged note, writing in a new note next to it.

"I've seen enough of your music to recognize when you've done something wrong," Basch said. "And that was wrong. The loop didn't quite connect."

"Heaven forbid something like that happen," Roderich muttered under his breath, pulling the codebook closer so he could read the measures he was supposed to fit in. He found the measures for _Valkyrie_ , _bomb_ , _train_ , _25_ , and _Hamburg_ – on Christmas morning, Team Valkyrie was going to bomb a train full of munitions passing through Hamburg. "You aren't a composer and never will be, so don't tell me what to do."

"Who says I'll never be a composer? I composed those music things in your codebook."

"They're called measures. And you told me an hour ago you copied these down from scraps of my sheet music I'd left here. That's anything but composing."

"I wrote the little dots on a page," Basch said, putting his finger over a bar. "See that? I composed that."

"You copied it from work I'd already done," Roderich corrected, pushing his hand aside.

To say Roderich was regretting coming to Basch for help was an extreme understatement. He didn't say much when Lilli was awake, keeping quiet and working on some plans for something. However, the minute Lilli went back to her bedroom, all hell broke loose. Basch wouldn't stop interrupting Roderich's work, sitting beside him and correcting every minute detail. How did he ever expect Roderich to stop drinking?

"Alright, so maybe I'm no Beethoven," Basch said. "You got the fun talents. I only know how to put a gun back together and blow up a bridge."

"Are you looking for sympathy?" Roderich asked, putting in the _train_ measure. Basch was right for once; the measures didn't work well together at all.

"No, not sympathy. I wish I had what you had. Maybe I'd be somewhere better than this shit hole of a city."

"You are really talkative tonight," Roderich said, not bothering to hide his frustration. "Did you get into the vodka I have here?"

"Please, I'd rather talk to Ludwig for an evening than become an alcoholic like you. And I'm doing this to piss you off. Which seems to be working."

"Getting drunk once doesn't necessarily make you an alcoholic," Roderich reminded him, drawing a lazy fermata; it was more of a blotch than a bird's eye. "I've met plenty of people who've been drunk and I would never consider them anything like me."

"Like who?" Basch asked, making Roderich think of a young girl asking about her friend's crush. Didn't a grown man have anything better to do?

"You cannot tell anyone I said any of this," Roderich said, his words lost to the howling winds outside. "Goebbels and Heydrich are always one of the first to get drunk at parties. I did see Himmler drunk, only once. That was interesting, to say the least. Told me about his mistress and shouted something along the lines, 'my wife's such an ugly bitch' at the top of his lungs."

"You have any pictures?"

"What, were you going to blackmail Himmler like you've blackmailed me into this?" Roderich asked. "I don't think he'd join as easily as I did."

Basch almost laughed for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "You say that as if you had a choice. Hell, I forced you into everything. Although, Francis suggested you become part of the Angels. It was my idea to put you in Operation Edelweiss."

"And what a wonderful idea it was."

"Ja, it really was good on my part," Basch said. He either wasn't good at picking up on sarcasm or was ignoring Roderich again. "You're just…Roderich. You're too much for one man, which is why you're perfect. No one would ever suspect you. And by the way, I want you to go out painting with Lilli tomorrow."

"You mean I still have to be part of the Angels?" Roderich asked as he put down a crescendo – the piece was so close to being finished, and it had to end perfectly.

"Why wouldn't you be?"

Roderich glanced over at Basch. "You wouldn't want to keep me far from trouble?"

"Listen, one of our best agents got arrested last week. We need all the help we can get, and you're capable of helping. So you're going to go paint, whether you like it or not. I'm not letting Lilli go out on her own."

"Why doesn't Francis take her?"

"Why do you ask so many questions if you're such a genius?" Basch mocked. "Francis is scared to do anything because of the Gestapo break in. He's laying low right now."

"Maybe next time, don't break into Gestapo Headquarters. But that's my suggestion."

"A shit suggestion –"

Basch was interrupted by the wail of an air raid siren. A low, haunting scream, slowly got louder as planes rumbled in the distance. There hadn't been an air raid since September – Roderich had nearly forgotten the way the sirens made everything stop for a second. Even the normally loud house went silent as Basch got up from his chair, going over to the kitchen window.

"They're on the other side of the city," he said with a frown, looking back at Roderich. "There's no fun in that."

"What do you mean, _fun_?" Roderich asked, slamming his composition book closed. Possible death by an air raid wasn't the way he wanted to end his story, at least not with Basch. "Shouldn't we be, you know, going to a bomb shelter?"

Before Basch could answer, the door to the bedroom was thrown open, Lilli running over to Basch. She put her arms around his waist, holding on to him like they were about to be separated forever. Basch whispered something, prying the girl from him. Lilli shook her head, her long golden braids swaying back and forth.

"Come on, I'll show you it's alright," Basch said loud enough for Roderich to hear, taking Lilli's hand in his. "Come outside with me. You too, von Wolffe."

"No!" Lilli tore Basch's hand from hers, backing away from him. "I don't want you to play that game again!"

"It's not a game. And trust me, I'll be fine. You'd be fine if you played it with me." Basch propped open the front door, looking out at the skyline. Between the roofs of run-down houses, searchlights scanned the sky and occasional bursts of orange and white lit up the horizon. And yet, Basch was so relaxed about everything.

"Please, Herr von Wolffe," Lilli said, going to Roderich. "Make him listen. I don't care if we stay at the house, just don't let him play his game."

"Basch, whatever you're going to do, don't," Roderich growled, glaring daggers at the man. Basch shrugged, sauntering out to his front yard without a care in the currently mortifying world.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Lilli grabbed the edges of her nightgown, clutching the silky fabric in tight fists. "He's going to do it, he's going to die, this is it, this is it, this is it."

"Surely it can't be that –"

"Go look for yourself and tell me if it's all that bad!" Lilli pointed out the open door, her hand trembling. "He's going to die tonight, I know it!"

Roderich went over to the open door, partially curious as to what Basch was doing and mostly intending on stopping the brat. He hated to see Lilli being hurt in any way; shouldn't Basch be the same? Did he not see how scared he made the poor girl with the game?

Basch was standing out in the middle of the street, his head tilted towards the sky. He looked over at Roderich standing in the doorway, a smile spreading across his face. "Do you want to try?" he shouted, waving at Roderich like a madman.

"What are you doing?!" Roderich could see why Lilli was so disturbed by the game – it made Basch look like he'd lost it.

"Testing fate!"

"He'll stand there until the air raid is over," Lilli said, keeping her back to Basch. "Sometimes he'll yell at the planes to kill him. One of these days, someone is going to shoot him down. Don't do it, Herr von Wolffe. Please don't do it."

"Stop being a baby and get over here!" Basch's eyes went back up to the sky as another explosion rumbled the earth, his shoulders thrown back and head held high.

He looked so strong. Roderich cursed himself for thinking it, but Basch looked brave and courageous and unafraid of anything the universe had to throw at him. Basch was just a man standing in the middle of the street with the stupidest grin Roderich had seen in a long time – and yet, he was a hero. A fearless hero, standing up to the Brits. Asking for them to kill him.

And only then did Roderich realize what Basch was truly doing.

He was letting all control go for a moment, a sliver of his lifetime. Letting life pull at the strings again and doing nothing to interfere. Basch wasn't letting fear and faith hold him back, instead trusting that fate wouldn't lead him astray.

Roderich stepped away from the doorway, walking slowly across the snowy front yard. Lilli shouted something; it fell on deaf ears. Basch glanced over at him, not saying anything and holding out his hand. When Roderich made it to the street, he took Basch's hand, the man's cold finger's curling around his.

"This is what it feels like to be helpless," Basch said, his words forming frothy clouds. "We can't control anything right now. It's you, me, and destiny. And I _love_ it."

"You're insane," Roderich shot back, looking up at the starry sky. It was oddly beautiful in the midst of the chaos, stars and a few planets dusted across the heavens. A bright spot in the horribly dark world. As air raid sirens howled in the distance and blasts from bombs shook the ground and flak guns tore through the clouds, the sky was as gorgeous as ever.

"That would make you insane, too."

"You're the one holding my hand."

Basch let a small laugh slip through his fearless façade. "I'm scared. And I'm making sure you stay here. If we die, we'll die together."

"How nice," Roderich said. "You care about me so much it almost makes me want to care about you."

"Don't get your hopes up, lover boy. I'm saying that if I'm going to die, it won't be alone. I don't want to be alone in whatever comes next. At least you'll provide some entertainment."

"Way to be positive."

"We're all aware that I'm going to die soon, being who I am," Basch said. "I set up Operation Edelweiss so that I have almost no part in it. If I get caught or something, the rest of you have to continue. They can't trace the Angels to Edelweiss, I made sure of it. You have to carry on with this plan until the war ends and the Reich is buried deep in history." He clenched Roderich's hand tighter. "We've got to win. We've got to win this one."

"For once, I agree with you. If we don't win, I'm going to be stuck with Hitler forever. That or something will slip through and I'll die," Roderich said quietly, still a bit overwhelmed by the power of being helpless. It was so much fiercer than anything he'd ever felt before, crushing and choking and making Roderich feel horribly lonely. He wasn't sure whether to be afraid or laugh or cry out for a British bomber to end everything.

"And everyone would hate to hear about your death. Hey, if something happens to me, can you promise me something?"

Roderich sighed, keeping his eyes on the stars. It was so much to take in for a man who was too much. "What is it?"

"Nothing big. Just…if I disappear, will you take care of Lilli for me? Francis, he doesn't need an extra person around with the work he's doing. But you, you have an empty house. Hide her for me. Keep her safe until the end of this damn war. Keep her safe until we win. If I lost that kid, I'd never forgive myself. She deserves to live."

"I promise I'll take care of her."

"Thank you," Basch whispered. "Thank you so much."

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Soviet mistreatment – All Soviets were considered** _ **Untermensch**_ **, no matter what rank. Because of their supposed "impurity" and their refusal to ratify the Geneva Convention, Germans treated the prisoners any way they felt necessary. Stalag XVIII-A was one of the more generous camps; some Soviet prisoners were housed in open fields or huge shelters without walls. They could legally be shot for anything. When Soviet prisoners were taken, they were screened for certain attributes – say, if they were Jewish. The ones who failed the screenings were taken to concentration camps or secluded areas and shot. A Soviet soldier was lucky to make it into a stalag, as they were commonly sent to Auschwitz, Mauthausen, or Bergen-Belsen.**

 **The team names – Valkyrie: an Old Norse female figure who brought slain heroes to Valhalla. Varpulis: the god of storm winds from Bohemia. Weles: the Slavic god of earth, forests, water, and the underworld.**

 **Heydrich: Reinhard Heydrich was one of the key orchestrators of the Holocaust. Bascially Himmler's right-hand man, he helped organize things like the Wannasee Conference (where they finalized the plans for the Final Solution)** _ **Kristallnacht**_ **, and the SD, whose primary purpose was to seek out people against the Nazis and silence them.**

 **Translations:**

 _ **Man viskas bus gerai**_ **.** _ **Aš stiprus –**_ **I am strong. I'll be fine.**

 _ **Jūs esate labai stipri. Žinoma jums bus gerai, vaikeli –**_ **You are very strong. Of course you'll be fine, little one.**

 _ **Ar girdėjai, kad mažylis? Jūs ketinate būti bauda. Jie atsižvelgiant jus į ligoninę –**_ **Did you hear that, little one? You're going to be fine. They're taking you to the hospital.**

 _ **Aš nenoriu eiti. Ne be tavęs. Jie mane ir man atsiųsti atgal į stovyklą, kankinti mane ir daryti eksperimentus ir mane nužudyti su jų poilsio –**_ **I don't want to go. Not without you. They'll take me away and send me to a camp, torture me and do experiments and then kill me with the rest of them.**

 **Thank you to** Forbidden Tomatoes **,** EllaAwkward **,** twinklefarts **,** Shokoko **, and** Comix and Co **! I love that I'm seeing some new usernames!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	16. Smorzando

_Hitler stahlen unsere Worte._

 _Unsere Stimmen sind leise unter Hitler._

 _Sprechen Sie Ihren Verstand und gehängt werden._

They were only a handful of letters on a crumbling brick wall. Seventeen words, meaningless on their own, but powerful enough to warrant a transfer to Mauthausen together. How could three sentences, each in delicate handwriting, have so much control over their writers? Had the country sunk to the point where no one was allowed to speak their minds anymore, where "freedom" existed in just one's most private thoughts?

"What are you thinking about?" Lilli asked, painting a little edelweiss on the corner of their work; her signature. Basch had told her time and time again not to sign her work, and yet, Lilli kept putting edelweiss on every painting she did. Was it her way of rebelling? She didn't fit the unruly teenager stereotype by any means. Nonetheless, everyone had their guilty pleasures. Roderich knew that better than anyone else.

"I wasn't really thinking about anything," Roderich said. He couldn't tell the girl he'd been staging a revolt in his mind, thinking about what it would be like to speak freely again. He'd been quiet for too long and was begging for the chance to shout out something against the Nazis. Being part of a resistance movement wasn't enough for him; he wanted to tell the whole crowd of Nazi elites how proud he was to be Jewish without getting shot.

"You had to be thinking about something."

"What makes you say that?"

Lilli glanced over her shoulder, the harsh light from the streetlamps casting long shadows across her face. "You haven't said anything for a long time. I know you don't say a lot, but it's making me nervous. That and you looked angry."

"Alright, then. What do you want me to say?" Roderich asked, leaning up against the wall. He picked at the dried paint on his coat, the white streaks almost gone after three months. Only three months ago he'd been a run-of-the-mill alcoholic, drinking his fantasy problems away. Now he had real problems and he wasn't allowed to drink. "I don't have a lot to talk about tonight."

"Don't you have a story or something? Did anything interesting happen today?"

Roderich thought for a moment, going over his day. His quiet life at home was unbearably dull, having little to no opportunities for excitement. All he did was the same routine as the day before – work, chores, get angry with the Third Reich, and try his best not to turn to drinking by four in the afternoon. The same things he'd been doing since Elizabeta left, day after boring day. The day got interesting when he went to Basch's house, either because he had to or he was so fed up he'd rather get yelled at by Basch.

"I can't think of anything to tell you, other than we should be leaving soon. Basch said to have you at Francis' by eleven." Roderich looked back at Lilli, trying to figure out what she was painting around the edelweiss. It appeared to be a triangle – why that?

"I'm almost done," Lilli said, drawing a line straight through the triangle.

"What are you doing?"

Lilli shushed him, hiding her masterpiece from Roderich. "It's our new signature, for you and me. Hold on…there!" She took a step back, holding out her hands to show off the new addition to the wall.

Beneath the three lethal sentences, Lilli's edelweiss was surrounded by a Star of David. As if the defiant words weren't enough, the star was the pièce de résistance. It was cocky and dangerous, almost cute in a way, and above all, the opposite of what Basch had told them to do.

He wasn't sure how to react to it – be the parent figure Basch wanted him to be or give his honest opinion? "I…I like it," Roderich said, flashing the girl a smile. He couldn't crush her dreams, not when she was just fourteen. "We should have a signature, and that one fits us very well."

"You really like it?"

"Would I lie to you?"

Lilli paused for a moment. "You might, but it would probably be for my own good. Sometimes people need to be lied to. Basch lies to me a lot."

"And you're alright with that?" Roderich asked, grabbing the violin case he'd left against the wall. He flicked the latches open, taking the tiny can of paint from Lilli and nestling it inside the worn felt with the two paint brushes. Basch had given them the case to use on missions; it couldn't have been bought legally, not when the case was in so good of condition and Basch didn't have enough money to buy a newspaper. Not that Roderich cared where the case was bought; it wasn't one he would even think of putting Marlene in.

"I'm alright with a lot of things," Lilli said, hiding the white smudges on her hands with a worn pair of mittens. "Lying isn't necessarily evil like everyone makes it out to be. Sometimes it can be good and I don't realize it. I don't need to know everything that's going on in Basch's life, and whatever he chooses to hide from me is for a reason."

"I don't think he hides that much from you."

Lilli shrugged, leading Roderich back out to the main street. "He's a very secretive sort of person. He never tells me anything about his past, doesn't tell me what's going on with him, and certainly won't tell me about you. And by the way, you moved up in the ranks last night. You're now somewhere between trustworthy and Mathias."

"Meaning?" Roderich said as they stepped out of the alley into the sleepy street, pulling his keys from his pocket. He had a feeling Basch sent him with Lilli solely because he had a car and Basch didn't.

"You're one step closer to becoming a friend. When you played that air raid game with him, he started trusting you. That or something else happened that I don't know about. He might be warming up to you."

Roderich jammed the key into the car door lock, shaking his head. "He's never going to warm up to me. We may look friendly enough now; the sole reason I'm still working for him is so he can use me."

He tossed the violin case in the back seat of his car – something he never would've done had it been a real instrument – and got in. Lilli took her place in the passenger seat, still a bit wonderstruck as she looked around the car. Roderich almost found it adorable how excited she got when the Horch pulled up in front of her house.

"You're so lucky," Lilli breathed, looking over every intricate detail of the Horch's interior. The rough leather of the seats, the scratches and dents in the paneling from nights of drunken abuse, and the sheet music scattered over the floor and stuffed lazily in between the seats. Everything was new and wonderful to her starry eyes.

"I wouldn't call myself lucky. Something more along the lines of woefully hopeless fits better."

"You truly are lucky, though," Lilli said. "You've got a job everyone in my school wants to have, you've got money to buy whatever you want, and you've got your own little family with us. How is that not lucky?"

"I couldn't tell you. What I know is that I didn't get here by chance," Roderich said, glancing over at Lilli. "I had to work for everything. Maybe not as hard as I should've. That didn't mean it wasn't work. And work is not luck."

"Do you ever agree with people?"

Roderich paused for a moment, thinking back to the fights he'd caused over the years. "No, I don't think so. I've been arguing since I can remember. I felt like it was my job to prove people wrong. Which is why everyone hated me and I got into a lot of fights. That and the fact that I was Jewish."

"…I really thought I'd hate you, too," Lilli said, her shoes becoming the most interesting thing in the world. "And not because you argued. We were learning about Nazis in school and the teacher mentioned your name with the rest of them. He said almost no one knew what you looked like and then said that you had to be an Aryan. And I guess I thought that if you were an Aryan, you were bad."

"I'm more surprised that anyone bothered to remember a drunk's name," Roderich said in what he thought was consolation. "I'm not that well known."

"You are. It's just that no one can put a name to your face. Everyone knows the name Roderich von Wolffe. Every one of the good kids do, the people who go to their meetings and don't live with my brother. Which isn't me." Lilli looked up at Roderich. "I used to wonder what you looked like and how mean you were. I hated you without knowing you. And now, I can't imagine hating you now that I know you. You're nothing like the Jews they told me about in school. There isn't anything to even dislike about you."

"Oh, believe me, there's plenty that you don't know," Roderich said. "I'm a very dislikable person."

"How did I ever hate you?"

"Who knows?" Roderich asked with a smile. "Who knows anything at this point? You're so young, Lilli, and you think these serious things. Save those for when you're old. For now, enjoy life as it is and forget about worrying."

"There's a war going on. How can I enjoy anything?"

"So what if there's a war? Make the most of it, play your brother's games and listen to the lies they're feeding you in school. Remember them, as someday you're going to look back on this and realize how stupid it is. You're going to have so many wonderful stories and wonder why your brother ever trusted you with an alcoholic."

"You can't laugh about a war," Lilli said. "Especially not this one."

"You _can_ ," Roderich corrected her. "You can always laugh. Because our time here is a blink of the eye to the world, you can laugh at anything. In a few centuries, no one will remember Hitler's name. He'll fade, just like the rest of us. Today, this year, your whole life, it's nothing to history. This'll all be forgotten somewhere between the Great War and the next big conflict. So do what you want to do. You're fourteen, you've got a whole life ahead of you. Do what you want with it."

"I want to make it out of this alive."

"There's a start. Tell me something more. What do you want to do with your life?"

"I figured I'd help Basch with the gun work."

"Is that what you honestly want to do?" Roderich asked. "Work with guns and Basch? You're going to go insane if you stay with him for the rest of your life."

"Maybe I could be a housewife," Lilli said, looking over at Roderich for approval.

"Alright, that's getting better. Don't you want to do something exciting?"

"I've always wanted to be a nurse, but that's not going to happen," she mumbled, green eyes going back to her shoes.

"Why won't it happen?" Roderich said. "You're smart, you've got the patience for it, and you're so damn sweet that hospitals would be begging for you."

"Basch wants me staying with him. He's protective –"

"You mean to tell me that you're letting Basch run your life?" Roderich interrupted. "You won't do something because _he_ doesn't want you doing it?"

"Well, ja…"

"Lilli, I'm going to tell you this once and I'll never say it again. Take it or leave it. You cannot let other people run your life. You are Lilli Zwingli, and if you want to be the best nurse in Austria, you be the best nurse in Austria. Do not let Basch hold you back. Don't let anyone tell you no. We have a very limited time here, so don't let someone else keep you from making the best of it."

"It's hard to go against him," Lilli said. "He took me in and did so many things for me. I owe my life to him. And I can't fight that, not when he's taken care of me when he can barely take care of himself."

"Where's your rebellious spirit?" Roderich asked as they pulled in front of Francis' apartment. "Come on, you've got to have some adventure in your life."

"I don't know if that's the adventure I want," Lilli said, fumbling with the buttons on her coat. "So, um, thank you for driving me here. You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. I wasn't going to leave you out in the snow."

Lilli gave him a half-smile, pushing open the car door. "I'm glad I don't hate you, Herr von Wolffe. Without you, I'd be miserable."

* * *

He tapped his pen impatiently against the edge of his clipboard, trying to keep himself from going insane. The sharp hospital smell stung at his nose – he was used to working in dirty cells and basements, not clean rooms actually used for operations. His operating room was in disarray, tools laying in the sinks and red stains in between the floor tiles. The hospital had provided him with one of their best rooms, one that met every health requirement in all of Europe. The Führer would consider having an operation done in the room, it was that antiseptically perfect.

How long had it been since he'd been in a hospital? Years, it seemed. He'd been working at Dachau since it opened, picking apart the seams of so many people's lives. Experimenting with genetics. Working on various forms of torture. Killing man after woman after child. He was a ruthless man with a ruthless job who went home to his wife every night and felt no regrets. He'd been trained to be a surgeon for the looming war, until Dachau offered him a job that he couldn't refuse.

The door swung open, a young looking nurse stepping into the room. That got the man interested – he hadn't seen any women in Dachau, save for the heartless looking _kapos_ who'd rather watch him bleed out on the floor than have a civilized conversation.

"I'm sorry for the wait, sir. There was more paperwork than we expected, and his guardian wasn't in a good mood," she said, clutching a folder full of papers tight to her chest.

"No, no, it's no trouble." The man dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. "It wasn't that long of a wait to begin with. Is everything settled with the subject?"

"Ja, we got his papers signed. There's only a slight problem."

"Which is?"

"After much arguing with the man responsible for him, we came to the agreement that we can run tests and we cannot kill the subject," the nurse said, her blue eyes going to the overly polished floor. "He believes the subject is still ill, and the procedure is necessary. If we kill the subject, the man in charge will not be happy. He says he has connections to the Führer."

"Are accidental deaths alright?" he asked.

"We can't kill him, no matter what."

The man's grin slipped back into a frown; he wasn't good at keeping his patients alive. Dachau let him point to anyone and kill them – they weren't so generous in Graz. "I see. Then we'll push him as close to death as we can. May I see the subject now?"

"He's not cooperating at the moment. If you want to go in, you can." The woman motioned to a pair of doors on the other side of the room – the same doors the man had heard feral shouts coming from moments ago. He'd hoped it was someone else's patient.

" _Danke_ , Fraulein," he said, giving the nurse a forced smile. The man turned on his heels, going over to the doors. He pushed one open, slipping inside right as the subject started screaming again. If it wasn't for the too-white walls, the man would've been right back in Dachau.

" _Mein Gott,"_ the man grumbled, looking at the metal table in the middle of the room. He hated disobedient patients, and this one seemed to be no exception. The subject was sobbing, shouting things in an odd language, and fighting everything the assistants were trying to do. And then again, the subject looked to be about twelve, so it was understandable. He was scared and alone and missing his parents who were probably rotting in a mass grave.

"Let the subject go," he ordered. The room fell silent; even the subject went quiet.

The assistants backed away from the table, leaving the subject curled up on the table. He looked a bit tall for his age – it was hard to tell his exact height, as he had his knees pulled tight to his chest. In his struggle, he'd somehow torn open the back of the hospital gown, revealing scars running over his back. Perhaps a rough childhood? Abusive parents? Wherever the boy came from, it wouldn't matter in a few minutes.

"I'm sorry, sir, we couldn't get him restrained," an assistant apologized, said restraints still in his hands.

"It won't be a problem. I can work with this," the man said, grabbing a chair. He went over to the trembling boy, wild green eyes locking with his. Moving as slow as he could so as to not startle him, the man sat down beside the table. The boy backed away, sobs racking his chest, and put his hands up around his throat, He knew what was going on; had he been through this before?

"Hello there," the man said in the softest, most motherly voice he could force out of himself. "I'm Doctor Halle. I work here at the hospital. Can you tell me your name?"

The boy blinked a few times, confused by the sudden shift in tone. His crying faded into hiccups as he stared at Doctor Halle, trying to make sense of the man.

"What is your name?"

There was still no reply. The boy looked down at the metal table.

"Can you understand me? Do you speak German?" Halle asked in the same caring voice, even though he wanted to beat the answers out of the boy. It was always best to stay calm with young children, at least until they fully understood what was going to happen to them. There was no use being calm after they started screaming.

The subject nodded, taking one hand away from his neck. Halle smiled; they'd gotten past the trust issue. Trust was hard to gain with older children, and thankfully this one was a lot more empty-headed than the rest.

"Good, good. I promise I am not here to hurt you. I am going to make you better. All I want is your name."

"… _N-n-nein_ ," the boy stammered, pulling his legs closer to his chest. So he _could_ speak. Halle was starting to wonder if they'd brought him a mute.

"This will go over a lot easier if you cooperate with me," Halle said, glancing down at his clipboard. Nothing was going to be easy about Experiment 49, at least not for the boy.

The procedures listed were going to hurt the child for years to come – and if the pain wasn't physical, it would be mental. Nightmares for decades, phantom pains, flashbacks, Halle had seen the effects of his tests. He'd tested on the nightmares, Experiments 32 and 37, which certainly were the least pleasing of his tests. Staying up all night with a screaming man wasn't ideal to anyone.

Hopefully, the boy would get flashbacks. Halle was fond of silent suffering – really, he was fond of silence in general. And Experiment 49 fell under the right categories for flashbacks.

"My…my n-n-name is T-T-Toris," the boy whispered.

"Toris," Halle repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. Definitely Slavic. "And where are you from, Toris?"

"Nowhere," he said. "I d-d-don't have a-a-a home anymore."

"Everyone has a home. Where were you born?"

"Nowhere."

"Alright, then. Where do you live now?"

"Nowhere."

"Where were your parents from?"

"…Nowhere."

Halle clenched his hand into a fist, taking a deep breath. "Are you from Poland? Your name sounds Polish."

"Is P-P-Poland nowhere?" Toris asked in his innocent voice.

"Listen, kid, don't get smart with me," Halle growled, losing the act for a second. "I'm not asking for a lot. Just answer my questions and this will be over."

Toris nodded again, his green eyes wide. "I-I-I come from R-R-Russia."

"See? It isn't that hard," Halle said. He'd never had the pleasure of operating on a Soviet – and Toris was as mad as he'd heard the people were. What sort of secrets laid within the boy's impure chest? Halle was itching to rip him open and find out, the psychotic part of him that almost got him thrown out of medical school eager to take over. "Now, do you know what we're going to do to you today?"

Toris shook his head. Poor soul, he was so new to the world of racial science.

"I promise it won't hurt," – lies, _horrible_ lies – "We're going to take a little bit of blood for some tests. And then you'll fall asleep and you won't feel a thing. You'll wake up all better."

"I just got over typhus," Toris said, dark eyebrows furrowing together. God, that kid was obnoxious. If Halle had him for a son, he would've shot the boy already and forgot he ever had a son.

"That doesn't mean you're not sick," Halle said, looking back down at his clipboard and the procedures listed. He'd wanted to do a full dissection; shame someone wanted the boy alive. Other people always had to ruin his fun. Experiment 49 was supposed to be a postmortem procedure. He'd have to tweak it into something that kept the boy alive. "You have plenty of hereditary diseases we are going to take care of. I don't have a lot of information on you, Toris. Can you give me a last name?"

"Laurinaitis."

"And birthday?"

"February 16."

Halle looked up. "What year were you born?"

"Sixteen."

"No, not your birthdate. How old are you?"

"I was born in 1916," Toris replied. "I'm twenty-five."

Halle froze. That pitiful thing before him was twenty-five years old?

Surely that was wrong. That would make Toris all of three years younger than he was. He looked like he was seven, and acted like it, too. What grown man would be crying and stuttering over something as simple as an operation? The Soviets were so proud of their soldiers, and yet, this was the best they could produce? A stammering, sobbing, arguing catastrophe? A sorry looking man with his ribs jutting out and dark circles beneath his eyes? A fragile, pale, sickly wretch?

"Give me your real damn age before I get mad," Halle snarled, slamming his hand down on the table. Toris flinched, putting his hands back up to his neck. "I am not playing games anymore, kid."

"I'm twenty-five, I promise," Toris said. "I know I'm shorter than you –"

"This has nothing to do with your height." Halle put his clipboard aside, wishing he could grab Toris' heart and rip it right out of his chest. "I was expecting a child," he said to the assistants, pointing to Toris. "I was not instructed to do work on a grown man, no matter how childish."

"That was the only one we could get for you," one of them said. "Everyone else was illegal."

"I made a fool out of myself because no one told me I was working with an adult," Halle said to himself, going over to the table full of instruments. He grabbed a scalpel and syringe full of morphine. "You took me away from Dachau to work on whatever you call that? I've seen children in better condition! I could be doing so many more important things than wasting my time here with this disgusting excuse of a soldier!"

Halle went back over to Toris, his teeth clenched so tight his ears rang. "You," he said in a low voice, shoving Toris onto his back. He put his hand on the man's shoulder, forcing him to lay flat. Toris didn't bother to resist again, knowing it was worthless to fight a monster like Halle. "You have made the biggest mistake of your life. I can't believe what the Soviets call a soldier now. My daughter doesn't even cry as much as you do, and she's two."

Toris didn't say anything, instead watching the scalpel.

Halle put the scalpel's point right over Toris' heart, giving him a devilish grin. "Accidents happen here, Toris. If my hand slips…well, is there anyone in nowhere you'd like to have me notify?"

"E-e-everyone I know is dead."

"You may very well be joining them. And I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm a liar," Halle said. "I was going to be generous and put you under halfway through. Now that I know you're a man, I see no reason to. We are going to preform everything while you are conscious. And if you happen to pass out, I'll bring you right back." He held up the syringe of morphine, waving it back and forth. "And who's to say you don't get any infections after this? I will do the basics of my job, which do not entail cleaning you up.

"You are dead, Toris. So, so dead."

* * *

Down, down, down.

Solitary confinement hid in a hillside, deep beneath the earth. If Elizabeta were claustrophobic, she wouldn't have dared to take one step inside the dungeon beneath the camp. The walls seemed to close in more and more the farther she went down the stairs, crushing her with the weight of the world above. Silence hung heavy in the stairwell, making the haunted feeling worse. Accompanied with her own heart pounding in her chest, Elizabeta would've thought she was in a horror film.

"…Hello?" she called out when she reached the hall with the cells. Echoes rang out in the darkness for what seemed like a century, fading into the shadows at the end of the hall. Had Ivan escaped?

"Elizabeta? Is that you?" Ivan whispered, his voice barely audible. "Did you find out about Toris?"

Elizabeta went over to the cell she knew was Ivan's, pulling a loop of keys from her pocket. She opened the door with a gentle click, slipping inside. Ivan did not tackle her or hold a gun to her head like she'd partially expected; he didn't bother to get up. He was sprawled out on the cot, fingers clutched around what looked to be a blanket.

"He is dead, no?" Ivan's voice was ragged and hoarse, violet eyes unmoving, staring blankly up into the ceiling.

"As of twenty minutes ago, he was still alive."

Ivan didn't say anything. He didn't look at her. He didn't even smile, but rather clenched more of the blanket in his fist.

"I have some bad news, though," Elizabeta continued, coming over to the man. Only then did she notice that it wasn't a blanket in his hands, it was his scarf. His scarred neck was bared, the scars red and bloody.

"Which is?" Ivan said, his eyes moving to a different place on the ceiling.

"Are you alright? My God, Ivan, you're bleeding."

"I know." One hand went to his neck, smearing the blood over his pale skin. "I got too angry tonight. I'm sorry, I didn't think of how you would react." He slowly sat up, starting to put the scarf back around his neck. Ivan winced as he draped an end over his shoulder, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"No, no, don't do that," Elizabeta said, taking the scarf off. "Don't hurt yourself."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's not bothering me, more worrying," Elizabeta said. "Did you do that to yourself?"

Ivan nodded.

"Oh, dear, you don't have to do this," she whispered, wiping the blood smears away with her sleeve. Ivan brushed her hand away, hiding the scars with his thick fingers. Elizabeta tried not to stare at the rust red around his fingernails, tried not to think of how long Ivan had been down there ripping himself up.

"If I don't punish myself, who will?" Ivan dug his fingers into his neck again. "It's always better to do things yourself."

"Ivan, you haven't done anything –"

"Wrong?" he finished. "I've done everything wrong. I am one big mistake. One big worthless mistake."

"Stop saying that. You are fine the way you are and don't you think otherwise."

"That's what you want me to believe," Ivan said, pulling his hand away from his neck. "I don't know what I believe anymore. And I don't know if I want to believe anything you're trying to say to me. You're a Nazi's wife, as bad as the rest of them."

"What's hurting yourself going to do?" Elizabeta asked, sitting down on the edge of the cot. She took the scarf from Ivan's shaking hands, folding it up into a neat square. She'd never seen the man without the trademark scarf; it almost made him look like a different person.

"I don't know," he said. "I never know. It makes me remember that I am nothing more than a failure. Which keeps me what you people call humble."

"Just stop, then. You don't have to hurt yourself."

Ivan didn't reply. Did he understand? Or were Elizabeta's efforts in vain, Ivan too shell-shocked to listen to anything she had to say?

"I'm…I'm going to tell you something you may not want to hear," Elizabeta said. "But it's the truth and you need to hear it. Toris is in Graz at the moment, and he's no longer sick."

"You mean he's going to live?" Ivan asked, his words dull and brittle and nothing like they should've been. He should've smiled and shouted and hugged Elizabeta and kept rambling on about the lone person in the world he cared about.

Elizabeta didn't know if she should continue. Was it wrong to get Ivan's hopes up and then crush them immediately? "I can't say yes, and I can't say no. Today, the hospital called here. I overheard Gilbert talking with them. They wanted to run tests on Toris."

"So he is dead."

"The hospital called again about an hour ago," she said, finding herself clutching the scarf. "He's in critical condition. They're sending him back tomorrow, even if he needs medical attention. Gilbert still doesn't know this. What I'm going to do is bring Toris to you, along with someone from the infirmary. Can you take care of him down here? I'll bring you the things you need to fix him up."

"You are bringing him back to me," Ivan repeated. "And then he will die."

"It's the least I can do, Ivan. I'm not a doctor, and whatever they did to him must've been unimaginable."

"You are bringing him back to me, and then he will die." Ivan showed no sign of emotion as he spoke.

"Yes, I am bringing him to you. And yes, he probably will die," Elizabeta choked, wiping at her eyes. "I just thought it would be nice for you to say goodbye to him."

"Why are you crying?" Ivan asked. "You have nothing to be sad about. He is a Soviet. A number on a page."

"He's a human. And I don't want to see a human like him die like this," Elizabeta said, cursing herself for getting so worked up over one man. Ivan was right; Toris was only a Soviet, another number on another page.

He was so much more than that to Elizabeta. He was an innocent man who spent his time protecting other people, never once bothering to worry about his own health. Toris taught the enemy how to speak Russian, helped accustom Gilbert to Stalag XVIII-A, took Raivis into his care when the POW hierarchy was considering sending the boy to Dachau, and risked his life to take care of Raivis and Eduard. He didn't deserve to become a Nazi experiment, a number on a page with a few notes written beside it. A mutilated hero.

Suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder, a strong arm holding her close. Elizabeta put her arms around Ivan, sobbing into his chest.

"Everything will be alright," Ivan said, stroking Elizabeta's dark hair. "Please, _solnishko_ , do not cry over Toris. He wouldn't want you to cry."

"He shouldn't be dying! My God, we sent him away to get killed!"

Ivan's heartbeat started getting faster. "Yes, we did. There's nothing I can do about that. All I can do is take care of him when he gets here. I have to stay with him until the end."

"And then what?" Elizabeta asked. "What about when Raivis comes back? They'll send him to Dachau or have him shot! And you'll be alone and I'll be lost and this whole place is going to be a disaster."

"Wounds take time to heal. And after time, we will be back to normal."

"What is normal anymore?" She looked up at Ivan, begging for an answer. "We're in the middle of a war, I left my husband, I'm crying to you about a Slav dying! There is no such thing as normal!"

"The war will end. You're happy with Gilbert, a lot happier than you were with Roderich. And there is no problem with crying to me about your problems," Ivan said. "I'll listen. I'd listen to you forever if that's what you wanted."

"…Why aren't you crying?"

Ivan shrugged. "I've cried so much over the years that it doesn't do me any good. It's not that I'm not sad, it's that I don't have any tears left."

"I want Toris back," Elizabeta whispered, feeling so wrong for saying the four words. The good Nazi wife in her screamed for her to get out of a Soviet's arms before someone saw her.; the bad part urged her closer. "Everything was fine when he was here. You and me and Gilbert. We weren't fighting or anything."

"I cannot keep someone alive. If it is his time to die, so be it. You can stay with him tomorrow. You should. I won't mind. To be honest, I probably need company down here."

"I don't want to intrude on anything personal."

"Believe me," Ivan said, "We don't need to speak. I want to be there for him, and you should be there, too."

"No, I can't take your time with him away," Elizabeta insisted, although her conscious was begging for her to take Ivan's offer. She wanted to be with Toris in his last moments, to be remembered as a good person and not the scandalous wife of a Nazi.

Ivan held Elizabeta away from him so the two could see each other, his indigo eyes locking with hers. "Stay with me. I need you, Elizabeta. Toris needs you."

"I can't."

Ivan paused for a moment, looking over the woman before him. She hid her face in shame, knowing how terrible she must've looked, sobbing and begging for a nearly dead man to come back to life. It wasn't her fault Gilbert sent Toris away, that he agreed to the tests. Elizabeta did nothing. She was just a bystander, another face in the endless crowd. A hopeless dreamer who couldn't hold a steady relationship and couldn't decide whose side she was on.

"You stay with me tomorrow and help me with Toris," Ivan said. "Right now, you need to go back to Gilbert. He'll be worried if you're gone for too long." He brushed her bangs aside, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "Good night, _solnishko_."

Elizabeta didn't say anything as she got to her feet and left the cell, locking the door behind her. She didn't say anything as she climbed back up the real world. She didn't say anything as she walked solemnly past the barracks and into her private quarters. She didn't say anything as she got into bed next to Gilbert.

"I love you," Gilbert whispered. "You know that, right?"

"I love you, too."

Those words felt so much emptier than they had the day before.

* * *

"It looks like our brave hero has returned," Ludwig said with a smirk as he stepped into Hochstetter's office. The _kriminalkomissionar_ was slumped over his desk, head buried in his arms. Already he'd given up being in uniform, his jacket draped over a chair and tie crumpled in a pile next to him. Ludwig expected as much, if not a completely hungover Hochstetter.

"I missed that voice," Hochstetter grumbled without glancing up. "What the hell do you want, kid?"

"Answers."

"Alright, you want to know where I was?" Hochstetter sat up straight, rubbing his bloodshot blue eyes. He hadn't shaved in a long time and undoubtedly hadn't slept for more than two hours in longer. "Or are we talking about someone else?"

"No, I want to know where you were. And then I'll tell you what happened while you were gone," Ludwig said, going over to the man's desk. He'd somehow destroyed Ludwig's careful organization in the less than five minutes he'd been at Headquarters, files strewn over the surface and pens scattered among pages on criminals.

"Can't you give me a break?"

"You don't deserve a break."

Hochstetter smiled, running a hand through his hair. "No, I really don't. I was in Berlin, for your information."

"Doing what?" Ludwig asked, folding his arms over his chest. He wasn't going to settle for the typical "I was in Berlin" answers, not this time around.

"Visiting my parents. Th' hell do you think I was doing?" Hochstetter snapped. "I was called back to my old Gestapo clique. They wanted me to help them with some assassination that just happened to come up when we had our fight, and I took it as an excuse. And I didn't want to tell you because you would've begged for me to take you along."

"I have no interest in going anywhere with you."

"You should, because it was a damn fun time!" Hochstetter leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk Ludwig so painstakingly cleaned. "Some asshole put a bomb in an SS meeting room. All seven of them died. All seven. And you know what they tell me?"

"Do I want to know?" Ludwig asked; he could never be sure with Hochstetter.

"They tell me, 'oh, hey, I'm sorry we sent you out to Vienna, but we need you back to solve this. We have initials and a record of who was in the building that week. Nothing else. Have fun!'" Hochstetter mocked in a high pitched voice, fluttering his eyelashes. "I got nothing more than a list and a bit of burnt leather. And honestly, I wish you would've come with me, so then we could've suffered together.

"You'll never guess who was in the building that day," Hochstetter said. "Roderich von Wolffe," he continued before Ludwig could say anything. "And so I tracked him down first. He obviously didn't do anything; I wanted to double-check to be sure. I spent the next week or so tracking a Jean Traver down to middle-of-nowhere, France. Almost got shot a few times by farmers," he said. "They're not too fond of Gestapo men out there."

"And I'm presuming you found this Jean Traver?"

"No! I went back to Berlin only to find out the other guy they'd sent out had already found Jean, and by the time I came back, he'd already been hanged. And then some other bullshit happened, I almost got married, who cares."

"What was that about getting married?" Ludwig asked. Hochstetter couldn't commit to bringing the weekly files to the _kriminaloberassistent_ , never mind get married.

"We were really drunk, alright? It was a good idea at the time."

"Like when you wanted to go swimming in the Danube at three a.m. and nearly drowned? That was a good idea until I had to pull you out of the water."

Hochstetter's face flushed red as he flashed Ludwig a sheepish smile. "Ja, a lot of my ideas are good at the time and then downright stupid when I look at them later. But," he said, holding up his hands, "Look. I am not married and probably never will be."

"Which is a good thing. Can you even imagine what your children would be like?" Ludwig said. "The devil incarnate."

"And there'd be a lot of them, too," Hochstetter muttered. "So, what happened in this boring ass city while I was gone? Probably nothing, seeing as I'm the lone exciting thing here. Anything new from Basch?"

"He's the same irritating brat as before, only now he's hiding from me," Ludwig said, sitting down beside Hochstetter. "I've gone over there a few times, and either no one's home or it's Roderich, Lilli, or Christian. And then I go to Christian's, and he says Basch is at his own house. And if I go to Roderich's, he'll say Basch is at a bar downtown."

"So he's done something wrong?"

Ludwig shrugged. "He could be messing with me. And the real excitement started with my lovely brother calling again. We've got information on Roderich's father now, and he wants me to go to Salzburg sometime and scope out this man."

"What'd he do?" Hochstetter asked, sounding excited for once. He sat up straight again, actually making eye contact.

"Gil and I haven't worked out the details; we think Roderich's father converted to Judaism at some point in time. Roderich doesn't appear to have any ties to the religion and there's no reason for us to arrest him. And if we do arrest his father, I'm under orders to keep it quiet."

"You mean Roderich von Wolffe's father is a _Jew?"_

"It's looking that way. I figure I'll go out to Salzburg around Christmas, make a quick and quiet arrest, and come home. Nothing big or dramatic."

"Oh, my God," Hochstetter said, putting a hand over his mouth. "You actually figured something out. And without me."

"I'm not completely dependent on you," Ludwig growled. "I could get a lot more done without you."

"This is amazing, kid! Hitler's Beethoven has a Jewish father, and you figured that out!" Hochstetter gave Ludwig a hard slap on the back, his grin lightening up the gloomy December day. Ludwig hated to admit that he'd missed seeing that smile.

"It was mostly my brother –"

"Shh," Hochstetter said, putting a finger to his lips. "You figured it out, and that's what matters. I don't want to hear about your brother. You said you're going to go out around Christmas?"

"Uh, ja. It seemed like a good time, and I do have a break from work," Ludwig said.

"Do you realize what this means, though?" Hochstetter asked, blue eyes twinkling. "Roderich's the key figure in every one of these cases, right? The one link to everything? So, when we arrest his beloved father, assuming they're on good terms, he'll be a mess. He'll get scared and start making dumb mistakes and we can make a ton more arrests."

Ludwig didn't say anything for a second – he'd never thought of it that way. Really, he hadn't thought past arresting Roderich's father. "Well, ja, I guess that would happen."

"This is going to be so good," Hochstetter said. "We're going to end these damn cases. Hell, they might promote us to _kriminaloberassistents_!"

"What do you mean, _us_?"

"Well, you don't think I'm going to let you go out to Salzburg alone, do you?" Hochstetter asked with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "You might get lost and I'd never see you again. Say, when we go, we should get your brother to come with us. I'd like to meet him."

"What is this now, some kind of vacation?" Ludwig said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Going on a trip with Gilbert _and_ Hochstetter sounded like a recipe for another war. The two had bigger egos than all of Nazi Germany, talked at volume nine billion, and never shut up. Putting them in a car together was bound to create so many conflicts it made Ludwig's head hurt just thinking about it.

"If you want to call it that. It'll be fun," Hochstetter said, clearly not knowing the definition of the word fun. "You, me, your brother, and an arrest. And when we come back, we'll watch Roderich von Wolffe fall to pieces and reveal who he truly is. Then we step in and arrest the whole lot, Headquarters will make us into heroes, and everyone can move on with their lives. It's a genius idea."

"You've never met my brother, and you'll probably hate him. Are you sure you want to drive out to Salzburg with him?"

"Who cares if I hate him? Let's go on an adventure, kid. Let's get lost and arrest a few Jewish converts. What could be better than that?"

Ludwig held his head. What was he getting himself into? "There's a million things I can think of that are dramatically better than that."

"Name one."

"Dying."

"Name a serious one."

"Spending time with my dog."

"Seriously?" Hochstetter asked. "Don't be such a hermit. Come on an adventure with me. Hell, I'll even let you bring your dog."

Ludwig arched an eyebrow. "Berlitz can come?"

"Bring the dog."

"You've got yourself a deal, then."

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Racial sciences/experimentation: I do not want to go into this deeply simply because it makes me sick. Experiments on "subhuman" races were common in Nazi Germany, ranging from simple blood tests to the things Toris has done to him. All of them were very, very disturbing in context. Most took place at concentration camps, where there were plenty of subjects from plenty of races to choose from. The most famous example of this is Dr. Mengele and his experiments with twins at Auschwitz. If you happen to be interested in this, look up "Dr. Mengele experiments," for more depth. The results can be quite graphic, so don't say I haven't warned you.**

 **Kapo: Kapos were people in concentration camps chosen to be personnel. The idea behind kapos was to pit a victim against a victim, and make people pick favourites based on performance. They were still prisoners, but they weren't forced through physical labour as long as their performance remained satisfactory. Kapos were notorious for being brutal to other prisoners, seeing as most of them were criminals.**

 **Translation notes:**

 _ **Hitler stahlen unsere Worte –**_ **Hitler stole our words**

 _ **Unsere Stimmen sind leise unter Hitler –**_ **Our voices are silent under Hitler**

 _ **Sprechen Sie Ihren Verstand und gehängt warden –**_ **Speak your mind and be hanged**

 _ **Solinishko**_ **– a Russian term of endearment meaning sunshine**

 **IMPORTANT INFORMATION FOR THOSE OF YOU FOLLOWING THIS STORY:**

 **I am back in school now and cannot keep up the chapter a week pace. I seriously am writing this minutes before it is posted. There will now be a chapter every TWO weeks until I can get everything under control. I'm sorry, but I have to do it. I'm going to die of pressure before this story ends.**

 **THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING.**

 **Thank you's go out to** RebelWithoutACause1998 **,** waterwielder25 **,** audreyfan0215 **,** ABCSKW123-IX **,** Polly Little **,** EllaAwkward **,** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **, and** Comix and Co **! There's so many new and familiar usernames and I love it!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	17. Espressivo

"Elizabeta?"

The two froze, staring at each other like panicked deer. Ivan slipped the bottle of iodine into his duffel bag among other odd medical supplies, stumbling backwards. Gilbert reached for something Ivan couldn't see, a hint of metal gleaming in the dreary moonlight. Whether it was a knife or gun, Ivan didn't care to stick around and find out. If he could get to the door before Gilbert could put a bullet through his skull, he might have a chance of –

Gilbert flicked the lights on.

Now Ivan knew it was a knife in his hands, a rusty hunting knife with unsettling stains and a serrated edge that would have no problem ripping him open. It had probably been stabbed through Polish soldiers and Jews back east, well accustomed to tearing apart Slavs and _Untermensch_. Ivan scanned the room for a weapon within reaching distance, coming up with nothing more than a book. And it wasn't even a good book, some flimsy German propaganda thing Gilbert was probably required to read and didn't.

"…You're not Elizabeta," Gilbert said like it was surprising, blinking a few times.

"Uh, no, I'm not. Would you believe me if I said this was a dream?" Ivan asked all too hopefully as he took another scared step towards the door. He ran his hand along the wall, fumbling for the doorknob without breaking eye contact with the man. One glance could give Gilbert the time he needed.

Gilbert held up the knife in response. "Where's. My. Wife?" The Prussian enunciated every word with a jab of the giant knife towards Ivan.

"I promise there is nothing like what you're thinking of –"

"Oh, no, Elizabeta couldn't possibly be dumb enough to think of getting with a disgusting Red like you," Gilbert said, starting the slow stalk towards Ivan. One step closer. Two steps. Three; he was within striking distance, close enough to put the knife deep into Ivan's chest. "But there are plenty of other reasons she'd be with you. Bribery, escape, kidnapping and ransoms, that sort of thing. And considering what your soldiers do to the women out in Poland, I wouldn't be surprised if you had her tied up somewhere."

"I am not at _all_ like them," Ivan said, backing away from the blade. "I have my dignity. I would never, not ever stoop so low as to be a rapist. And trust me, Elizabeta isn't in danger."

"So you're implying that she is with you?" Gilbert's words filled with a new anger, a new hatred and betrayal and absolute disgust. He lunged for Ivan, holding the knife up under the man's chin. Ivan pressed himself back into the corner, suddenly wishing he'd taken the propaganda book. At least he could dull the attack for a moment before he bled out on the floor.

"Yes and no and really, it's nothing like what you're thinking!" Ivan held up a hand in a show of innocence, the other one clenched tight around the doorknob. He needed a chance, a quick diversion to give him the opportunity to run.

"Where is she, then?" Gilbert pushed the tip of the blade into Ivan's vulnerable flesh. "Because she sure as hell isn't in bed with me or where she should be."

"I assure you, Herr Commandant, she's fine."

Gilbert narrowed his garnet eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I know you, Ivan Braginsky. I know you so damn well. And you expect me to believe that? You expect me to believe that Elizabeta is fine down there with you in solit..." His voice faded away as the puzzle pieces snapped together and he saw the whole picture. "You're…You're supposed to be locked up in solitary confinement, aren't you?" he stammered, pale eyebrows furrowed together. "Who let you out? And the guard, what did you do with him?"

"Will you kill me if I answer you?" Ivan asked, pushing the knife away from his throat. Gilbert's hand dropped to his side, his knuckles turning white.

"No, no. She didn't let you out. She wouldn't do that," Gilbert muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. "Elizabeta wouldn't do that to me. Why wouldn't she tell me something like that? There's something more than that going on, isn't there?"

Ivan wasn't going to let his one shot at escape slip through his fingers.

He threw the door open and ran.

The winds bit into his ever thinning coat, sharp flecks of ice scratching up his hands and face. Somewhere behind him, Gilbert shouted something. And then a guard shouted something. More shouts, more dogs barking, more escape sirens. The searchlights flooded the grounds, washing over Ivan in pale white. Did Gilbert shout something about shooting to kill? Ivan couldn't make it out through the howling wind; all he could do was pray that the guards were feeling merciful.

He crawled under the razor wire fence that surrounded solitary confinement, flinching at the report of a high-power rifle he knew was aimed right at his heart. Ivan wrestled his bag through the gap in the fence, scrambling to his feet. Stumbling through the snow drifts, he made it to the back door and slipped quietly inside.

" _Ivan!"_ Gilbert snarled from an adjoining hallway – he'd already gotten through the front gate? Ivan didn't bother to wait for the man, taking the stairs down to solitary confinement two at a time. He could see the gloomy hallway coming closer and closer, until he could just about –

The last step came quicker than he thought, Ivan completely missing it and falling flat on his face. Something cracked that probably wasn't supposed to crack. The world went blurry for a moment. Something shattered. A voice growled a command, there was a loud _jawohl_ , and then footsteps faded out of the room.

"Get up," Gilbert snarled with a sharp kick to Ivan's ribs. He dragged himself upright, wondering why there was a wet splotch on the side of his coat. Ivan didn't think he was bleeding yet. And the canvas of his bag was darker on one side than the other.

"Oh, no, no, no." Ivan ripped the bag open in an instant, throwing things out and praying what shattered wasn't what he thought it was. He nearly got the morphine syringe stuck in his hand as he pulled out a broken bottle, iodine spilling over his hands and down to the stone floor.

"Ivan!" A strong hand grabbed the back of the man's coat, cold fingers curling around the pink scarf. A mechanical click rang out in the hall.

"Herr Commandant, please, let me go," Ivan choked, cupping what was left of the iodine in his hands. "I'll do anything, just let me go."

"Where the hell is Elizabeta?" Gilbert ground his heel into Ivan's back, demanding the honest answer.

"Here. With me, in my cell."

Gilbert let go of Ivan, shifting his pistol to his other hand. The man leaned forward, plucking the remains of the iodine bottle from his hands. "And what are you doing with this?" he asked. "Iodine, huh?" He glanced down at Ivan before spilling the rest of the dirty liquid out onto the floor.

Ivan watched the murky stream run between the cracks, his hopes vanishing with it. Gilbert threw the half-bottle down, broken glass skittering across the stones. For once, Ivan didn't try to fight back. He sat there, his mind scattered like the broken bottle.

"Take me to Elizabeta," Gilbert snarled, nudging Ivan with the barrel of his pistol. Ivan nodded, gathering up the rest of his soaked bandages and rags.

"Oh, Ivan, thank God…" Elizabeta's voice cut short as Ivan came into the cell. She gaped at the pale ghost behind him, putting a protective arm over the figure on the cot. The colonel pulled the gun away from the back of Ivan's head, shutting the door.

"What's going on?" Gilbert asked in a quiet, scared voice. "That's not a corpse, is it?" He gestured to the tangled mess of sheets stretched out on the cot with his pistol, taking a step away.

Ivan didn't reply, kneeling down by Elizabeta. He handed the woman the duffel bag and pulled the sheet back. Toris' eyes were closed again, the man looking almost dead. Perhaps even dead. Ivan's heart stopped as he watched him, waiting for him to breathe again. One second. Then two. Three. Four – there, Ivan saw his chest rise ever so slightly.

"You're not dating a dead guy, are you?" Gilbert's voice broke the stifling silence again, this time directed towards Elizabeta.

"If you aren't going to be serious, leave," she growled, taking a roll of bandages and a rag from the bag. Ivan worked the sheet further away from Toris, trying not to stare at the red stains he never wanted to hear the stories about.

"Who the hell is that?" Gilbert said, coming over to the two. He examined Toris like he was some sort of felled beast, mouth drawn into a tight frown and head held high.

"Ivan, he's going to have to sit up. I can't do this with him lying down," Elizabeta said, pretending Gilbert was nonexistent. They couldn't be bothered with obnoxious colonels, not when Toris was so close to the fine line between life and death.

"Toris," Ivan whispered as he got up on the cot next to the dying man. He didn't move or open his eyes. "You're going to have to sit up. I'm sorry if I hurt you, I don't mean it."

Taking Toris in his arms like he was made of glass and paper, Ivan eased him upright, ignoring the soft groans and mutters in Lithuanian. He put Toris' anemic body against his own, the mostly unconscious man nestled in his lap. Ivan didn't dare to look at the bloodstains on the back of Toris' hands.

"When did Toris get here?" Gilbert came over to the bedside, putting down the wretched pistol. "I mean, that is Toris, right?"

"Gilbert, do you have sulfa powder with you?" Elizabeta asked as she picked at one of Toris' frayed bandages. Toris flinched, his green eyes starting to open. He mumbled a word that Ivan couldn't catch.

"Uh, no? I woke up around five minutes ago, and that wasn't on my list of things to get."

Only then did Ivan get a good look at Gilbert, startled to find the man in a navy blue robe. His white hair was a tousled mess, dark lines heavy under his eyes. Ivan could've sworn Gilbert was in uniform minutes ago when he was being hunted down. And then again, why would Gilbert be in uniform at four in the morning?

"I grabbed some tablets of that," Ivan said. "Sorry, I dropped the iodine. And I would've had more, if your husband didn't ruin it."

"No, no, it's fine." Elizabeta took a tin from the bag, pulling out white tablets. "Here, hold these," she ordered, giving Gilbert a handful of the sulfa tablets.

"What did they do to Toris?" Gilbert said, unable to look away from the bloody bandages. Ivan felt a twinge of anger; Gilbert had sent Toris to his death and he didn't bother to find out what happened?

"They took lots of blood," Toris slurred in German. Ivan held back a smile – Toris could discern languages again. Could he possibly be getting better? "And then they cut me open. Kept me awake with morphine. Made me see my own internals and bones. Took tiny parts of me for their tests. The doctor didn't bother sewing me up. He left it to the assistants. One was seventeen. He was the one who did the stitches."

Gilbert's pale face went somehow whiter. He swallowed hard, going back to poking at the sulfa tablets.

"It was for the good of German science, they said." Toris rubbed at the bloody marks on the back of his hand. "I don't know if keeping me conscious was for that same good. I hope it was."

"How are you feeling?" Ivan asked, looking away from the large row of zigzag stitches running up Toris' chest. "You seem to be much more talkative than before."

"I can talk fine and well, that's easy." Toris winced as Elizabeta worked off a bandage that was plastered to his skin with blood. "I feel like I've been awake forever." He rested his head against Ivan's shoulder. "Like maybe if I closed my eyes, I'd fall asleep and never wake up again."

Ivan took Toris' bloody hand in his own. "You're just fine, _malyutka_. Just fine. Please, don't say things like that."

"…I'm dying, aren't I? Is that why I'm so tired?"

No one answered. Not even Gilbert. Elizabeta took a rag that was soaked in the iodine, beginning to wipe at the stitches running up Toris' chest. Toris bit into his bottom lip, his hand tightening around Ivan's.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Toris continued. "Oh, well, I was pretty sure this was going to happen. It's a nice day to die, though. Too bad I won't make it to Christmas, I'd been meaning to give Raivis some things I'd saved up. Does anyone know when Raivis is coming back?"

"We have him scheduled to return on the 28th, he's being kept by a family in town for now," Elizabeta answered. "He's being used for menial labour, nothing too heavy."

"Good, that boy could use a job or two to keep him busy. He gets bored easily and needs to learn to work. And Eduard?"

"…Labelled unfit." This time Gilbert spoke as he ground the tablets with the butt of his pistol. "They sent him out to Banjica. Um…I'm sorry? I don't know if you two were close or anything, but I'm pretty sure he's dead."

"Oh." Toris nestled closer to Ivan. "Yes, he was sort of like a brother to me. It won't make any difference if I cry over him, as I figure we're headed to the same place. Hey, when Raivis gets back, would you not tell him what happened to Eduard and I? Can you say we got transferred? I don't want to break his heart."

" _Malyutka_ , you're not dying," Ivan said, his voice betraying him more than any words could.

"Yes, I am. I'm not stupid anymore." Toris looked up at Ivan, giving him a tired grin. "I appreciate you trying to clean me up and take care of me, but it's not going to matter once I'm dead. I'll be in a pit with the rest of them. So, take good care of Raivis for me, alright?"

"Stop being so calm about this. Aren't you scared?"

Toris shook his head. "When they were doing the operation, all I wanted was to die –"

"Toris," Ivan said, feeling his heart split in two.

"I didn't want to live anymore. I was alright with everything I'd done."

"Toris, please," Ivan insisted.

"And I don't have much, if any regrets, so –"

" _Toris."_

The man looked up, only then noticing the lone tear sliding down from Ivan's violet eyes. His smile faded. "Listen, Ivan, I know you like to be the authority here. I'm going to tell you something for once, and I hope you listen. Death isn't this demonic monster we've made it out to be. At this point, death is a savior."

* * *

"And how do you greet Adolf Hitler?"

"With a smile and a bullet through his stupid mustache."

Roderich held his quickly crumbling composure, wishing the woman would pay attention. Two hours, two infuriating hours he'd spent in Basch's kitchen, trying to work some etiquette into her. "You're with me, so you don't have to do the full salute. Actually, never mind that, it's better to play it safe and use the full salute. We can't risk anything on this trip."

"You want me to _heil_ the crazy old bastard?" Natalya looked up from her blood red fingernails, pointing the nail file at Roderich. "I'd rather be locked in a closet drunk with you than be within a meter of the devil you Germans adore. No, I'd rather dine with Lucifer himself in the depths of Hell than be in the same building as Hitler. At least Lucifer's interesting."

"Please do not refer to Hitler as a crazy old bastard or make any comparisons to the devil. Unless, of course, you're aiming to be shot. Which would be lovely, except I have no interest in dragging your body back here. Now, show me your salute."

Natalya put the file down and held her right arm out straight, sticking up her middle finger.

"I swear to God," Roderich growled through clenched teeth. He took a deep breath, straightening the woman's fingers out into the stiff salute. She held her hand up and made an _o_ with her thumb and forefinger, her face as emotionless as always.

" _Sieg Heil,"_ she said, going back to shaping her nails.

"You've got to admit, that would be interesting to see," Francis added, oblivious to the situation. "I mean, telling Hitler to piss off could be the revolution we've been waiting for, our siege of the Bastille. Or the downfall of our huge resistance and the death of a majority of us. Either way, it would undoubtedly make the news."

"Thank you for your constant optimism, Francis. You just know how to brighten my day, don't you?" Roderich said. Francis shrugged, returning to his paperwork. He stamped a name in one of the fake passports along with a swastika, humming some probably "illegal" song.

"If there's nothing left for me to do here, I'm going home." Natalya shoved the file back in her purse, starting to stand up.

"No, we aren't through with your lessons," Roderich said, snatching up his riding crop from the countertop. He put the tip of the crop on her chest, pushing her back down into her chair. "How do you greet Hitler?"

"I already answered that."

"I want the _correct_ answer."

Natalya slipped into an almost-frown. "I refuse to."

"Natalya, dear, if you'd just salute, this would go over a lot easier," Francis said, pushing one out of seven passports aside. "It isn't like you're sacrificing yourself to the devil."

"And I see you've given into the Nazis already," Natalya muttered. "It is as bad as sacrificing myself to the devil. I refuse to pretend to support them."

"Natalya, _heil_ ," Roderich said, tapping the crop impatiently against the table.

"You can't make me, jackass."

"I can."

"You wouldn't dare hit me, Fraulein. Unless…why exactly _do_ you have that whip?" Natalya folded her hands under her chin, looking up at Roderich like a too curious child.

Francis held back a laugh with a suggestive smile. "He's a very kinky –"

"I was raised by a general," Roderich snarled before Francis could continue, feeling his face flush red. "He made me learn how to work with horses, and so I've had a crop since I was about five. That and he taught me discipline this same way, which is why it stuck with me. It isn't for whatever repulsive things you two were thinking. And seriously, how old are you two? You're acting like a bunch of damn fifteen-year-olds."

"You're the one getting so worked up over this," Natalya said. "Which means you must be hiding something."

"I am not hiding anything other than my previous religion," Roderich said, putting the riding crop down on the table.

"And your fetishes."

" _Will you stop with that?!"_

Natalya crossed her arms, her way of saying she'd won.

"Back to our lesson," Roderich said before things could somehow get worse. He grabbed the riding crop again, using it to point to the place setting he'd somehow arranged out of what little usable dinnerware Basch owned. "I assume you know absolutely nothing about table manners, so I'm going to teach you everything I can tonight."

"So I've gone from fifteen to four?" Natalya rolled her eyes. "I know how to act in public."

"This isn't about your behaviour. This is about if you know how to eat a civilized dinner."

"What do you take me for, some sort of animal?"

Roderich paused, putting the crop under his chin for emphasis. "Um, ja, I do. You have the barbaric manners of a Russian, not a petite –"

"Francis, I swear if you put petite down on my file you're going to wake up without several body parts tomorrow," Natalya hissed, her hand itching for something in her purse. Probably a grenade, which wouldn't surprise Roderich in the slightest.

"So what if I did?" he asked as he finished the third passport. "Think about a cute _mademoiselle._ You see a petite woman, no?"

"I see the polar opposite of me. And how do you feel about being castrated?"

"Stop making threats towards Francis," Roderich groaned, rubbing his temples in a sad attempt at warding off an already bad headache. "Forget I ever said petite, alright? That never happened. Now, would you show me the cake fork?"

"Uh, no?" Natalya said with an air of superiority that Roderich wished she didn't have. "Find it yourself. I'm not your maid."

"Find the fork before I slap you."

"Fine." Natalya looked over the place setting before her, going to grab the salad fork. Roderich immediately brought the crop down on her fingers, the evil part of him wanting to grin as she pulled her hand back to her chest. She buried her hand deep in the fold of her dress, looking up at Roderich like he'd told her she was about to be executed.

"Jesus, was that really necessary?" she asked, her voice monotone and colder than before.

"Yes, because you'll never learn if I don't make a point. Show me the cake fork," Roderich said, holding up the crop as a reminder.

"You and Francis…" she muttered, carrying on in Russian. Natalya slowly took her hand from the safety of her dress, searching the table for the cursed cake fork. She reached for the small fork above the chipped plate, watching Roderich like a dog stealing food from its master's plate. A thin finger pointed to the fork, Natalya ready to get out of the way if she guessed wrong.

A few seconds passed, Francis humming his irritating tune as the two stared at each other. Roderich twitched the riding crop ever so slightly; Natalya flinched and pulled her hand away.

"Very good," Roderich said. "I'm surprised you didn't go for the entrée fork. And if you use the cake fork before there is actual cake, don't expect to be coming back to Vienna with me. I will leave you there for sure. Show me the red wine glass." He gestured to the three cups he'd laid out.

"There's three glasses." Natalya hid her fingers in her dress again. "Pick one and put red wine in it."

"That's not how this works. One of them is specifically for red wine."

Natalya nudged the middle one. "Put wine in that one, if you would. And please, poison it so I can end my misery here."

"Very –"

"Roderich!" Mathias shouted as he threw the door open, grabbing Roderich by the wrist. A Star of David with a J stitched into it slipped from his hand, fluttering to the ground like a yellow snowflake. "Oh, God, we really screwed up. We really, really messed this one up. Francis, you got the passports done?"

Francis shook his head. "I need about an hour."

"An _hour?!"_

 _"Oui._ Maybe forty minutes if I rushed, but I don't want to be doing that."

"Oh, no." Mathias growled a few curses, his hand clenched tight around Roderich's wrist, the musician still totally confused. "Alright, alright, I can work with that. Roderich, go home right now and look like you've been drinking for a good six hours. Our man said one of the Gestapo brats is out of town for something, I think it's the slightly less blond one. Either way, I called and did a stellar impersonation of you. He's coming over to your house in twenty minutes."

"You did what?" Roderich tried to ask as Mathias shoved him out the door, yelling a few goodbyes and instructions over his shoulder. He slammed the door behind him, giving Roderich a few encouraging nudges.

"You better run," Mathias said, stepping down from the porch. He gave Roderich a lopsided grin before running off towards the inner city.

Roderich stood on the porch in total silence; a shell-shocked soldier who'd seen too much. A thousand things came to mind, profanities and questions and who-knows-what. The winter winds tore into his bared skin, howling as they ran through the streets of Vienna. He heard a baby crying, a sad little plea for help in the too confusing world.

He walked down to the sidewalk, his mind number than his fingers. His debut performance was about to start, his first step and possibly last step into the acting world. That night could ruin his life forever. It could end it. Perhaps it would start something. It was full of so many possibilities and outcomes, so many different paths to take and choices to make.

Quite frankly, Roderich didn't know what to think, other than he should start running.

And so he did.

Feet pounding against the sidewalk, heart beating like a frantic war drum, Roderich ran. His feet carried him past ruined streets and vandalized buildings, past propaganda posters and rusty sidewalk stains. Past the houses he'd seen every day for the last ten years. Past the places he wrote a certain piece or held onto a fence for support when walking home drunk.

He ran across the street to his house, throwing the door open and quickly locking it behind him. Forcing old Viennese memories from his mind, he tore his tie off and partially unbuttoned his shirt. Roderich pushed things out of his way, shoving a stack of old music to the floor. If Ludwig was going to believe he was drunk, he was going to have to play everything out perfectly. Absolutely perfectly.

 _Oh, Lord, what did I get myself into?_ Roderich thought as he opened the liquor cabinet, taking a few glasses and a bottle of something Mathias gave him a while back. The Dane had said something about it being "able to get those German assholes drunk in about two minutes" – Roderich hoped he was right.

* * *

The muzzle of a semi-automatic dug into his back, a jackboot pressing him down to the earth. Wild grasses scratched at his nose as the two soldiers above him spoke back and forth, their language blurring into sounds and syllables. He opened his eye a sliver, looking out through blond lashes at the gloomy Sunday evening. Dark clouds hung in a corner of the sky, a brutal winter storm eastern Europe was so famous for. Right in front of his face was a blood-spattered shoe, so close he could almost make out the name stamped into the heel.

"You want to do the honours?" a smoker's voice asked, the muzzle's weight disappearing from his back. The rifle's safety clicked.

"Doesn't he look dead enough?" The second voice was younger, sounding no older than seventeen. A child. An innocent child in Waffen-SS uniform. How dreadfully ironic.

"You never know. He's bleedin'; that doesn't mean he's dead." There was a pause. "An' then again, they're all so damn sick on that train they die days before they get there. Might have even been dead before he jumped."

"What is he? A Jew?" the babyish voice said, giving the body a nudge in the ribs. He tried not to flinch.

"Don't look like a rotten Jew to me. Don't got the nose for it. Maybe a Polack? Resistance? Oh, I've got it. He looks like a gay, don't he? Seems like the type to have a boyfriend."

"I've never known a gay before, how would I know?"

"You'll get to know a lot of 'em at the camp." The bloodstained boot turned away from him towards the second voice. "Of course, they're dead in about five minutes. So you better be pretty damn good at learnin' someone's name in five minutes 'f you want to talk with 'em. We don't get a lot, not as much as the Jews."

"Do you mind if I look at him? Or is that forbidden?"

"General probably wouldn't want you pokin' around a dead body. I don't care if you get some disease. Look 'f you really want to."

He felt something inside of him – his hope – wither away. This was the end of him. After all his efforts, the meticulous planning, he was going to die at the hands of a curious SS man. He held his breath, hoping being shot in the head wasn't as painful as he figured it would be. He'd like to have a painless death.

Someone rolled him over with their foot, his glasses sliding away from his face. He kept his eyes closed, praying and begging to whatever god was out there for help. He could tell someone knelt down beside him, grasses crunching under the weight of a built young man.

A gloved finger touched the bottom of his eyelid, pulling it up. He panicked, trying to roll his blue eyes up as far as he could. Now he could see the presumed younger of the two SS guards – he looked like a scared boy playing soldier in his father's uniform. Too young, much too young to be shooting Jews in fields. Maybe he'd still have some mercy about him, being so new.

"He has amazing eyes," the boy said to the older man. "They look like the Führer's."

"Did you compare some gay's eyes to Hitler's? You've got me thinkin' some odd things about you, boy."

"I was only saying that they're very blue. I wish I had his eyes instead of mine." The boy let him close his eyes again, standing up. "He looks like any other German. I don't see what's wrong with him."

"C'mon, kid, this guy's obviously gettin' to you. That's no Aryan, that's someone who deserves to be rotting in this field. Let's get back to the train."

"Hold on, I want something of his."

The older man's rumble of a laugh cut through the emptiness of the field. "Alright, get yourself a trophy. I'll be back at the train. If you need help, scream. I might be able to hear you."

"Some help you are," the boy said as footsteps faded away. The young soldier knelt back down beside him, putting a hand on his chest.

He waited for a gunshot, for the gentle release of death.

"I know you can hear me. You're not dead, not yet. What's your name?"

He didn't dare to answer.

"Hold on, you've got tags, right? You look like a soldier." The boy reached for the tags, pulling them free from the bluish-grey of the uniform. "Oh, you're a Russian? Ed…Eduard? Is that right? Eduard von Bock, it looks like. I've never been too good with Cyrillic."

He didn't acknowledge the soldier. He was not Eduard, not anymore. Eduard von Bock was something of the past, an intelligent human with emotions and thoughts. He, he was a panicked shell of Eduard. A hunted animal, running from the men with guns. A lowly, worthless being. Not Eduard von Bock, the proud Estonian who'd rather be hung than follow a German's orders.

"I promise I'm not going to kill you," the boy whispered. "I know you think I'm another heartless bastard, but I don't want to kill you. Katz, the man with me, might want to. I just want to go home. I'm from Czechoslovakia, you know. I'm an outcast, like you. They let me in the Waffen-SS because my mother was German. I'm guessing you don't have a German mother."

Again, Eduard kept his mouth shut.

"Well, whatever, I wasn't expecting a conversation anyways. I'm going back to the train. Hey, do you care if I keep your tags? I need a trophy or something. Oh, hey, what's this?" The soldier stuck his hand into Eduard's pocket, removing the lump of wood. "Did you make this? It's beautiful. You've got some talent to make something like this. Shame you're who you are."

Eduard wanted to open his eyes and beg for the stag back. He wanted to rip the carving from the boy's hands and hold it so tight no one could ever take it from him again. Toris – God bless his selfless soul – had slipped the wooden deer into Eduard's pocket before they dragged him away to the "hospital". He'd told Eduard to stay strong. That stag carving was the only thing that kept Eduard alive, the only thing that made him try to escape the train to his death. His will to live was buried deep in that figure, without it, he had no purpose.

"This looks important, though. I'll take your tags instead." He laid the deer back down on Eduard's chest, removing the dog tags from his neck. "May God be with you, wherever you intend on going. Home, I guess. I hope you make it. Maybe you really are dead, though, and I've been talking to a dead man. In which case, thanks for listening. You're good company, Eduard. Goodbye."

The too young soldier got up. He went back to where strings of German were being shouted by the tracks. Someone screamed a command, one of those austere general sounding people. He heard doors being pulled shut and locks clicking, the moaning train starting to drag its weight forward again. The cattle cars rattled down the tracks, taking their wails and pleas with them. The stench of death and sickness no longer hung over him.

For the first time in a while, he felt free.

Eduard von Bock opened his eyes again.

The field around him was empty, a prairie sea full of grasses and dirty snow. Train tracks ripped through the ocean, the metal path to hell. Hills rose in the distance, gray slopes against the gray sky. Wherever he was, it looked like a black and white picture; there was nothing that even vaguely resembled colour.

He pressed his glasses to his face and eased himself upright, clutching a hand over the jagged wound on his ribs. How the bullet managed to clip his side and not bury itself deep in his lung, Eduard would never know. Some would say it was a miracle, Eduard figured it was destiny. Destiny kept that young SS man from putting another round into his skull, from beating him within an inch of his life and leaving him to die. He was meant to do something more than be shot in the back.

"What am I doing?" Eduard asked himself, picking up the stag carving Toris put so much time and effort into. He ran his thumb over the smoothed grain, smiling at the delicateness of the little deer. Toris was right, the pheasant could've easily killed the stag. The pheasant, although small, was solid and strong. A formidable little soldier. The stag was intimidating on the outside, however, he was fragile.

Oddly like Eduard – cold and mocking on the outside, alone and terrified on the inside.

"I've got to go back," Eduard said without a second thought, tucking the stag into his pocket. "I've got to go back."

He somehow got to his feet, stumbling through the waist-high snarls of weeds splattered red with his own blood. One thought took over everything, one primal urge. Eduard needed to get back to Stalag XVIII-A. Of course, he had no idea where he was or how to get back, but that didn't matter. Somewhere, on the other end of the tracks, his family was waiting for him. Ivan and Toris and Raivis, they were waiting for news of his death. Eduard needed to prove them wrong for so many reasons.

Eduard made it to the train tracks, looking off into the seemingly endless horizon. It was him, the field, and fate. A sad gust of wind tore through the prairie, ripping the golden ocean of grasses. All at once, Eduard felt more alone than he ever had. There wasn't a sign of life anywhere. A sign of humanity. A sign of some conscious being.

He took a deep breath. His hand went to his pocket, calloused fingers running over the delicate stag.

And he took a step forward, a step closer to a place he called home.

* * *

Ludwig lay awake, listening to the opera unfold downstairs. He'd never been too fond of operas – he found them boring and excruciatingly painful to sit through on the rare occasion he'd been dragged to one – but this one was different. It wasn't written with the dramatic intent of men such as Wagner and Verdi. No, it was bitter and soft, a piece heavy with remorse. He could almost hear the regret and anger in each note, like a man talking about an old flame. Maybe that's what it was.

It was rather strange to think that the man who'd been slurring things about his father the previous night could write up such beautiful things. How could a drunk put together an opera that kept Ludwig's attention? Roderich held so much more talent than the Reich knew. Ludwig almost found it sad that he'd been reduced to nothing more than another gear in the German propaganda machine. The Nazi empire didn't hear the stunning operas and symphonies, they heard the brittle music the propaganda ministry wanted. People didn't know what Roderich von Wolffe really wrote.

The opera took a darker turn as Ludwig pushed himself up, the melody an octave lower and much angrier. He wondered what it meant, picking his shirt up from where he'd left it. Roderich ushered him into the spare room the night before, muttering something about how Ludwig shouldn't be driving so late at night. Ludwig felt he had no choice but to stay, even though he wasn't nearly as drunk as Roderich was, just a little disoriented.

"Damn it!" he heard Roderich shout, accompanied a cacophony of notes that shouldn't have been together. "Oh, Roderich, you idiot. This is why you can't write an opera."

Ludwig wanted to go downstairs and tell Roderich his opera was wonderful – that would ruin the last step of his mission. He didn't go to Roderich's house to listen to music and tell him how brilliant it was.

He'd come for information.

After making the bed like polite guest, Ludwig buttoned up his shirt and stepped out into the hall. The hallway was thankfully empty of life, but certainly not things. Papers and boxes were lined up against the wall along with empty bottles with exquisite names on the labels. Testaments to Roderich's less than Nazi-ideals lifestyle. Ludwig wouldn't be surprised if the divorce papers were among them.

Downstairs, the piano music started up again. Ludwig felt like some sort of villain out to kill Roderich with the dark music playing in the background. He forced those thoughts from his mind before opening the door to Roderich's bedroom, slipping inside.

"Oh, my," Ludwig said as he locked the door behind him, not sure what to think of the room. The bedsheets were in a pile on the floor, more bottles lined up on the edge of the desk. The desk itself was nothing short of a tragedy, with books and pages scattered everywhere. A few photographs were pinned up next to the desk – Ludwig decided to start there.

The first was of a dramatically younger Roderich, somewhere around nine or ten. A tinier version of the Russian was next to him, the two sitting in a meadow of white flowers. Roderich was hidden in a book of German history, Ivan leaning on his shoulder with a stupid smile pasted on his face.

God, Ludwig hated Ivan, no matter how childish he looked.

The second was a window to the Tirol mountains, a postcard-esque scene. The mountains where Roderich grew up, the setting for his confusing story.

And the third was new. Very, very new.

It looked to be at a bar, Roderich with a beer in hand. Basch sat beside him, pointing to something in a book. Christian sat on the other side, with Lilli leaning over in front of him to see what Basch was talking about. There were two other men, one with wild hair and a bright smile and the other with his nose in a book of philosophy. And lastly, there was a woman with a fur stole and a cigarette in her mouth, looking at Roderich like he was the most revolting thing she'd laid eyes on.

Beneath the scene, Roderich had written something in his almost illegible cursive: _Angels that fell a little too hard from Heaven. 1941._

"Angels?" Ludwig said out loud, pinning the picture back to the wall. He hadn't seen some of those faces before.

"No, no, no!" Roderich yelled. "Angels, Roderich, _angels!_ Not Satan!"

Ludwig took that as his cue to go downstairs. He grabbed a few papers he figured Roderich wouldn't miss, folded them up, and shoved them in his pocket. Hochstetter was going to want evidence of this trip or Ludwig would never hear the end of it.

"Are you alright?" Ludwig asked as he came into the living room. Roderich didn't look up from his notebook, taking a bit of the large slice of chocolate cake balancing on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh, ja, ja, I'm fine. I didn't wake you up, did I?" Roderich said halfheartedly, less concerned for Ludwig's sake than Ludwig was for his.

"No, I was already awake. What are you writing?"

"An opera. Not that I have plans of going back to that sort of thing," he added. "It's just a force of habit. And I don't have anything else to do, so I figured I might as well write something I want to."

"And do you normally eat cake for breakfast?"

Roderich smiled, scribbling another note. "You ask a lot of questions. Makes sense that you're in the Gestapo. At my house, I do whatever I want. Usually I'm not dressed yet." He glanced up, pushing his glasses up. "You can help yourself to whatever you want. I don't mind."

"I'm not going to intrude on –" Ludwig started.

"You aren't intruding. You are my guest," Roderich said. "I don't have a hell of a lot to offer you, but I'm making my best efforts here. There's coffee on the stove if you want something to sober up with."

"No, really, I'm fine," Ludwig insisted, sitting down on the couch. "Don't you feel horrible?"

"Last night was nothing. I mean, yes, I am considering my will to live at the moment. It isn't as bad as it could be. Rarely does it get to those levels. I apologize for anything I did last night that you may remember, I don't mean it," he said before turning back to the grand piano, running a quick series of notes.

"I can't remember you doing anything."

"Good. I've been known to be very romantic and was hoping you didn't remember anything of that sort."

"Something could've happened and I've forgotten," Ludwig said, watching Roderich tear out a whole page of the beautiful music and place it in a pile on the couch.

"Then I guess we'll never know. Are you sure you don't want something?" Roderich looked over his shoulder at Ludwig, eyebrows pressed into a thin line. "It isn't good to not eat. I can make you something, if you want."

"I'm fine, I promise. Can I ask you another question, though?"

"Sure."

"Why were you shouting about angels earlier?"

"They're in my opera, and they're a very hard thing to personify," Roderich answered, seeming clueless as to what Ludwig was doing minutes ago. It could be an elaborate act, though. Roderich looked like the type to do something like that. "These are angels that have fallen from Heaven, too. Not demons, though. Somewhere on the line between good and evil – saints to some, Satan to others."

The angels that fell a little too hard from Heaven.

"Listen to me ramble on about angels." Roderich sighed, holding his head. "I'm not a people person, if you couldn't already tell. I couldn't hold a conversation to save my life."

"I don't know, you seem to be alright talking to me," Ludwig said. "And I'm a horrible Gestapo man."

"You're not horrible."

"Ja," Ludwig said, his eyes going to the floor, "I am horrible. I'm surprised you don't want me dead."

"Why would I want you dead?" Roderich asked, pushing his notebook aside.

"Doesn't everyone want Gestapo men dead?"

"I don't see you as a Gestapo man, though. I see you as Ludwig Beilschmidt, a wonderful human being. You cared enough about me to come over last night. And admittedly, not a lot of people do," Roderich said. "How could I want you dead if you're so good? You're practically a saint. A saint, talking with some fallen angel like me. You're too nice for your own good, and that's what makes you Ludwig." He stood up, grabbing the plate with half a slice of cake on it.

"Come on, I'm going to make you breakfast, whether you like it or not."

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Sulfa tablets: Sulfonamide tablets were like the miracle product of WWII. These tablets were antibiotics, much easier to carry than iodine. The only problem is, a lot of people were allergic to them, and they can cause a type of brain damage and lots of hypersensitivity, which isn't good. Still, the world kept using them because they were convenient and there weren't any better alternatives.**

 **Banjica** **: a concentration camp in Belgrade, Serbia. Opened in July of 1941, only around 3,500 died there. It was famous for its constant executions carried out by the Gestapo, and the torturous methods that they used to kill their victims. Before arrival, inmates would have to spend some time being interrogated by the Gestapo, only to be killed. It certainly isn't a famous as Auschwitz, but it was brutal. It's sad to see places like this forgotten.**

 **Big thank you's to my dears** DeciduousForest208 **,** FlamingFyre **,** EllaAwkward **, and** Comix and Co **! You guys know how to make my day awesome!**

 **And thank you all for understanding me having to move to every two weeks. Believe me, it's helped with a lot of stress.**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	18. Fuoco

"Francis?" Lilli whispered. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, _ma bichette_."

"Will we be home in time for Christmas?"

Francis glanced up from his latest set of papers. He couldn't see Lilli in the darkness – her bed was too far from the dim puddle of lamplight – but he knew she was curled up under the covers, waiting for his answer. Her naïve question almost made him smile, her childish hope bringing a bit of light back to the room. There they were, in a cheap inn on the Swiss border, hiding from the Gestapo, and her main concern was Christmas. It wasn't that her brother had been missing for two hours, that Francis hadn't heard a word from the escapees they'd sent across the border earlier, that they probably wouldn't have anything to eat for a good day or two.

She was concerned about Christmas.

"Of course we'll be back," Francis said without really knowing it. "We've got two days to get home, that's plenty of time. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." He saw a shape shift in the darkness as Lilli turned away from him.

"Come on, there must be something you're expecting back in Vienna."

"I wanted to know if we would be back, that's all."

"Are you hiding something from me?" Francis asked as he opened his agenda, taking a business card from the pages. Another name to erase from history and another headache. Everyone else at the office got Christmas break – and Francis got to question why he still forged handwriting and drew up swastika laden files.

"What's there to hide?" Lilli said. "You already know everything about me. You know everything about everyone. I couldn't hide something from you if I wanted to."

"…Is it a boyfriend?"

 _"What?"_ The springs of the mattress creaked as Lilli sat up. "I-I-I don't have a boyfriend!"

"So there's two, then?" Francis said with a grin. "Are you already playing with those boy's hearts? Oh, _ma bichette_ , you're so bad." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly like a mother.

"I don't have a boyfriend," Lilli repeated rather sternly for her usual temperament. "And even if I wanted to date one of them, I can't. The boys at my school are loyal _Hitlerjugend_ and don't want anything to do with a girl like me. They look at me like I'm about to start a riot. They think I'm like Basch, some rebel or something like that. And that doesn't go over very well with their Führer."

"Isn't there anyone who's caught your eye?"

"No. They hate me and I hate them. Simple as that."

"You've got to be more open than that," Francis said as he stamped a new name onto an empty form. "Hating everyone will get you nowhere other than alone."

"Basch hates everyone," Lilli said. "And he has me and you and Herr von Wolffe and Mathias."

"He doesn't hate everyone. Your brother is pretending to be so standoffish. Really, he's one of the most caring people in Vienna. He'd die for just about anyone."

"Except Hitler."

"I don't think any of us would die for Hitler. Maybe Roderich, but only because it would look good for him," Francis said. "Most of us would probably do something if it looked good for us."

Francis sighed, looking at his watch. Basch should've been back already – what could he possibly be doing out there? His mind jumped from one worst case scenario to the next, wishing Basch would've told them where he was going instead of his typical unintelligible grumble and a sloppy "tschüß". He didn't even know if Basch had a gun on him – what if he was out there in a strange town with just a knife? He could've been jumped or arrested or gotten caught in some black market trade the scrappy town outside the Swiss border was famous for.

"Basch is coming back, isn't he?" Lilli asked, her voice much weaker than it was moments ago.

"He'll be back any minute." Francis bit the inside of his cheek – his profession was lying and he couldn't muster something more believable than that? "He's out being Basch. You know him as well as I do, maybe better. Disappearing is something he does."

"He usually doesn't stay out this long, though."

"No, he usually doesn't," Francis said, pushing back the curtains to look out at the road before the inn. He searched the shadows for his cousin's thin silhouette, for some sign that Basch Zwingli was alive. Like the thousands of times he'd checked before, there was nothing.

"Did Basch tell you anything before he left?" Lilli said with a sliver of childish hopefulness.

"He told me to take good care of you, and that he'd be back soon." He didn't say that "soon" was supposed to be thirty minutes – some things were better not to mention.

"He didn't say what he was doing?"

"He never says what he's doing. Basch is a mystery to all of us. Always has been, always will be." Francis stamped a swastika in the corner of the new paper, pushing it aside. "You should've seen him when we were younger. The summer he stayed in Paris, he disappeared on Bastille Day and didn't come home for two days. He came back with a goat. Where do you find a goat in Paris? I still don't know."

The mattress groaned again as Lilli laid back down. She muttered something Francis took as a goodnight and the room went quiet again. Francis finished the last of his client's papers, putting them into a neat folder. He didn't dare to look back at his agenda; there were so many names waiting for him, and all he wanted to do was go to sleep.

"Francis? What's Paris like?" Lilli asked.

"Beautiful, _ma bichette_. Beautiful. Oh, I wish you could see it. The lights and the food and the people and everything, it's so amazing. There's so much to see, with the shops, cathedrals, the plazas, the Eiffel Tower. Of course, things always change," he added. "I haven't been there since I was seventeen. And with the war…" He shook his head, refusing to think of his Paris as another war-torn city. "Listen to me ramble. Never mind the war. I'll have to take you up there sometime so you can see for yourself."

"And can we take Basch?"

"I don't know, he might vanish again and find another –"

Francis was interrupted by frantic pounding on their door.

"Francis? Francis, you stupid bastard, I need in!" Basch shouted from the other side, beating on the door like a madman. "Get up right now!"

"I'm surprised there isn't a goat with him," Francis said as he got up, going over to the door. As soon as he unlocked it, Basch burst in, slamming the door behind him. He twisted the lock before Francis could say something, pushing past his cousin and throwing a bag on the bed.

"Basch?" Lilli said, sitting up. It wasn't a greeting or an "I'm so glad to see you alive" – she sounded terrified.

"Get up, Lilli," Basch ordered, turning back to Francis. "We've got about a minute to leave. I'll explain everything in the car. Just don't ask questions and move."

Francis nodded, grabbing his briefcase and shoving the fake papers in. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Basch unlocking the window and Lilli pulling her pink coat over her nightgown. The two of them looked so normal, as if they were going through a regular routine. How many times had they run from whoever was chasing Basch?

"Lilli, bring as many blankets as you can carry, we might be sleeping in the car tonight," Basch said, handing Francis the copy of _Mein Kampf_ hotel rooms kept stowed away in a drawer.

"I know you said no questions, but…" Francis faltered, holding up the book to speak for him.

Basch smiled, rather odd for the situation they were in. "If they start shooting at us, we better hope Hitler's bullshit will save our lives. I've heard of books stopping bullets before. Plus, we could sell that if things get desperate. Hitler brats would pay good money for it. Hell, why don't you do your forgery magic and get us an autographed copy?"

Francis tucked the book into his briefcase, not quite sure what sort of ideas Basch had in mind that night; they weren't good ones.

"Are we ready to –"

There was a crisp knock on the door before Basch could continue.

"Don't answer that," he said in a low voice, throwing the bag over his shoulder and going to the window. He eased the pane out, motioning for Lilli to follow him. The person knocked again as Basch helped Lilli out the window, handing her the blankets she'd stripped from the bed. He whispered a goodbye, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

"This is the Gestapo; open up immediately!" the angry voice of a _kriminalinspektor_ snarled. Basch locked eyes with Francis, shaking his head no.

Francis grabbed his keys from the table and walked as quietly as he could to the window, flinching as the man pounded on the door. Handing his briefcase to Basch, Francis got up on the windowsill. Basch pushed him outside a little too eagerly, throwing the briefcase down and waving him on with a flick of his wrist.

"Open up!" the Gestapo man repeated with a few more knocks on the door.

"Hold on, I'm not dressed yet!" Basch shouted back, taking a pistol from his pocket and aiming it at the door. "Start the car when you see me get out the window," he growled through clenched teeth, looking down at Francis. "When I get in there, you drive. And if I take longer than twenty seconds, get out of here without me. Take the backroads out. If we're separated, rendezvous in Oetz on Christmas. Got it?"

"Why don't you come with us?" Francis said, clutching his briefcase tight to his chest.

The Gestapo man started knocking and shouting again.

"I'm buying you time if you need it," Basch said, shifting awkwardly like a teenager trying to tell his date goodnight. "So, um, ja, goodbye. If I don't see you by Christmas, Roderich's got the keys to my house. _Je t'aime_."

" _Je t'aime_ ," Francis echoed, turning on his heels and running for his car. Lilli was already in the backseat, hidden underneath a pile of blankets. Her lips were moving; no sound was coming out. Silent prayers, Francis figured by her folded hands.

Francis slid the keys into the ignition and started counting.

Three seconds – a shadow appeared in the light from the window, bigger than Basch. Much bigger.

Seven seconds – Lilli's prayers got faster.

Sixteen seconds – the first gunshot tore through the night.

Nineteen seconds – the lights in the window went out.

Francis kept watching the yard until it blurred together, tears stinging at his eyes. He knew he should drive, for his sake and Lilli's. He knew he needed to get as far away from the town as he could. He knew he needed to be in Vienna to help plan the next attack of Operation Edelweiss.

But he couldn't move.

"Why isn't he coming?" Lilli whispered. "He always makes it out. Always. Francis, what did Basch tell you?"

Her words fell on deaf ears.

"Francis, what did he tell you?" Lilli leaned forward, trying to get the man to look at her. He shook his head, too shell-shocked to speak.

"Francis! Answer me!"

"We need to get out of here, alright?" Francis choked, looking over at the girl. "Why don't you try to go back to sleep?"

"No," Lilli said, her eyes going wide as she realized what was going on. She put a hand on Francis' forearm in an attempt at stopping him. "We can't leave without Basch. Just…just wait! He'll be coming soon."

"Lilli, he's not –" Francis started.

"Don't leave without him!" she screamed, clenching her hand around his wrist. "Don't you dare leave without him!"

"If we don't leave now, we're going to die!"

"What about Basch?! If we leave, he's going to die!"

"I have to take responsibility here, and I say we're leaving!" Francis took Lilli's hand from his wrist, pushing her back. "I can't let you die! You're all I have left!"

"Basch isn't dead!" Lilli snapped.

"Yes, he is! Didn't you hear the gunshots?!" Francis shot back. "Didn't you hear the gun –"

" _Start the car!"_

Francis looked back at the yard, his heart skipping a beat.

Running towards the car and clutching his arm was none other than Basch Zwingli. Blood ran down his arms, an uncomfortably large spot of red blooming under his ribs. His gun was shoved in his belt and his coat was gone, somehow his bag was slung over his shoulder.

"Start the car, you idiot!" Basch shouted, looking behind him. Francis fumbled with the keys, the engine roaring to life as Basch threw the door open, sliding in the seat next to him. Basch shut the door and Francis slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

"Lilli, do me a huge favour and lie down," Basch said as they tore down the road, turning around to look at the girl.

"You're bleeding!" she gasped.

"Ja, ja, I know. Lie down and cover yourself up with the blankets," Basch repeated too calmly for a man who'd been shot. "I don't want you getting shot, too. So try to go back to sleep."

Lilli must've done as she was told, as Basch turned back around. Francis glanced over at him and immediately looked away.

"Oh, God, I must look awful for you to give me that face," Basch said with a bit of a laugh. "Sorry, I'm getting blood all over your car."

"It's not that," Francis said, daring another look at Basch. His whole arm was red, the spot on his shirt growing larger and larger.

Basch rolled his eyes, opening his bag. He pulled a roll of bandages from inside, starting to wrap them around his arm. "You don't need to lie to me. When we get to Innsbruck, we'll stop and get this cleaned up. I think I can handle it for the time being. You've got a good minute until the Gestapo starts trailing us. Get to the main road as fast as you can."

"Innsbruck is at least two hours away. We need to stop before you get an infection."

"No, I'll be fine. Oh, hey, I got you some black-market chocolate," Basch said nonchalantly, putting a bar wrapped in golden paper in Francis' lap. "Thought you'd like that."

"You risked your life for chocolate?" Francis asked in a weak voice, turning the car onto the road out of the town.

"Well, not that. I have food and money and I…I...oh, shit," he mumbled. "I can't think too well right now. I think I lost a lot of blood. I got enough to get us to…Vienna! Ja, Vienna."

"Basch," Francis said, "are you alright?"

"I think I'm going to pass out."

"Basch?" Francis looked over at the passenger seat to find the Swiss slumped against the window, hand held over the wound on his chest.

* * *

There were plenty of things Roderich didn't want to do. Shoot a man, admit to his religion, die; the list could go on and on. However, he'd never thought sharing a luxurious hotel suite with a rich woman would be one of them. It was every divorced man's fantasy. Even he'd shamefully thought of it a few times when he was feeling lonelier than usual. A pretty woman, a private room, and plenty of champagne, it was the perfect dream of a man like him.

If only the woman wasn't Natalya Arlovskya and Roderich was allowed to drink the champagne.

"I could've killed him right there," Natalya said to herself, pacing back and forth in front of Roderich. He tried not to roll his eyes, going back to his experimental opera. Roderich had heard no less than twenty gory descriptions of one man's death, Natalya leaving no detail out. Ever since he'd dragged her away from the party, she hadn't stopped talking. How long had she been going off about how she could have killed Goebbels and the various methods with which she could do away with him?

"I should've put a knife in his stomach," she continued, making a slight thrust with her hand. "No, no, I should've poisoned him. I was close enough to do almost anything. We were so close, Roderich. So close. Do you have any idea how big of a revolt we could start if we killed Goebbels? We could have been revolutionaries, but you wanted to follow the rules."

"That's lovely. Why don't you shut up and get ready to go?" Roderich said as he wrote in a lazy eighteenth. "Let's think about murdering the minister of propaganda after we start a few fires at the Reichstag."

Natalya stopped her pacing, coming over to the couch. She plucked Roderich's pencil from his hand, demanding his attention. "I want to kill him," she snapped. "I don't want to play Basch's games. He's not thinking big enough with this fire. I want vengeance."

"Vengeance for what?"

"For everything that disgusting man has done."

Roderich sighed – he wasn't going to get any more work done on his opera. At least not with Natalya out for Josef Goebbels. "If I can't drink, you have to follow orders. We're not here to kill anyone."

"Can't we make an exception this one time?" Natalya asked, handing the pencil back. "Basch wouldn't even know it was me. There's plenty of other suspects down there. I could set something up with one of the servers –"

"Why don't you listen to me? At some point, Basch will probably send us on a mission like that. For now, we're staying small. Arson is already too much for me to handle."

Natalya crossed her arms, slipping into an almost-frown. She stood there for a second, trying to come up with something to use against him. Roderich smiled, getting up from the couch. He pushed her aside, going back to the lavish bedroom. Tossing his composition book onto the sheets made of the finest Egyptian cotton, Roderich grabbed the magnesium pencils from the nightstand.

The sparks for the burning of the Reichstag.

The cyanide capsule in his pocket got a little heavier at the sight of the two rods.

"I've got it!" Natalya ran into the room before Roderich could start getting prepared for his first arson, getting between him and his suitcase. "You're scared to kill someone because you want a second chance at your ex-wife! She won't love you if you're a criminal."

"You must've hit your head, because I'd never go to the level of crawling back to Elizabeta. I haven't mentioned her name once this trip, so please don't bring her up again," Roderich said flatly, grabbing his coat from where it rested with the pile of hidden microphones. Natalya made herself useful for once, hunting down every Gestapo device and ripping them out. Roderich had to hand it to her – he never would've figured out something like that on his own.

"No, you must be hoping for some sort of chance that you'll never have. No one would be stupid enough to come back to you." She almost-smiled, going over to the bed she'd claimed and snatching up a simpler dress than the evening gown she'd worn to the party. "No one in their right mind would even think of loving you," she added as she went off to the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind her.

"I'm relatively sure Elizabeta wasn't insane!" he called after her.

"Believe what you want! I know a hopeless romantic when I see one!"

Roderich started to shout an insult back, catching himself before it slipped out. Arguing with Natalya was useless; she always won, no matter what her opponent said. He'd be better off making his case to a lamp than even mentioning one of Natalya's many flaws.

"Oh, God, what am I doing?" Roderich said, holding out the two magnesium pencils in front of him. "Look at me, going to set the government on fire. Is that some sort of sin?"

He paused to think.

"I guess so," Roderich replied to himself, slipping two of the pencils into Natalya's purse and two into his pocket. A tag-team arson. Who would've thought it would be a rich demon of a woman and the Führer's composer?

The quiet trill of the phone ringing snapped him out of his thoughts; odd, he wasn't expecting a phone call. The bathroom door's lock popped, Natalya stepping out in a dress that wasn't quite long enough. Hitler certainly wouldn't approve of it. She looked over at Roderich, nearly showing a bit of confusion.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" she asked, indigo eyes flicking towards the phone.

"What if it's someone we don't want to speak with?" Roderich said. "We could be on a train to Auschwitz together. Which would be the _perfect_ way to go. I'm sure by some mistake, we'd end up in Hell together."

"You'll never know if you don't answer it."

"And I'll have a better chance of living and not spending eternal damnation with you."

"Answer it, you baby. I'll get ready to run if you screw something up again."

"Like I make so many mistakes." Roderich reached over and grabbed the receiver. Slowly, he held it up to his ear, not quite sure what to prepare for. An official? A Gestapo man? Basch? "Hello? This Roderich von Wolffe."

"Roderich? Where the hell are you?" Heydrich slurred, sounding about as intoxicated as Roderich wished he was.

"In my room. What do you want?" He knew it was rude and quite dangerous to talk to a Nazi official like that, except Heydrich wouldn't remember it in the morning. Roderich could tell the man he was a Jew and he would laugh it off and forget about it.

"These people are boring," Heydrich said, sounding more like a small child than a grown man. "A bunch of damn rich people. I need someone who can drink like you do."

"Well, uh, I happen to be preoccupied with other matters at the moment," Roderich said, looking over at Natalya for help. She shrugged, pulling on a fur coat. Couldn't she see that their lives were in danger and she should really be trying everything she could to help him?

"Can you say that in German?" Heydrich asked with a thunderous laugh, one Roderich hoped he wouldn't ever hear again.

"I'm busy with other things. You should probably go home."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember the little French girl I brought with me?" Roderich said. "She's waiting on me. I can't keep talking, sir, so you'll have to excuse me. Go get your driver or something to take you home, you sound wasted enough."

"Did you hear that?" Heydrich shouted at the top of his drunken voice. "Roderich's in bed with the French girl up in his room! He's too busy with a new damn girl to remember us!"

"That's not what I meant," Roderich groaned, knowing there was no way to talk himself out of a drunk man's assumptions. "I merely said –"

"Is she any good? I'd heard things about those French ones," Heydrich interrupted, Roderich clenching the phone tight in his hand to prevent himself from screaming.

"Goodnight, sir."

"C'mon, Roderich, you can tell me."

Roderich started to say something before Natalya came and took the phone from his hand, muttering something in Russian. " _Bonjour_ ," she said in her fake Parisian accent, twisting the cord around her finger. "Would you be a dear and leave the two of us alone?"

There was a long pause, Heydrich shouting something else at Natalya. Her face got redder and redder as the man continued on; Roderich held back a smile.

" _Oui_ , sir," she stammered. " _Gute Nacht_." And without waiting for a reply, she slammed the phone back down. Hiding her embarrassment from Roderich, she grabbed her purse and went over to the big window overlooking Berlin.

"I presume you're not fond of Heydrich," Roderich said. "I promise you, I didn't insinuate anything like what he was talking about."

"I don't want to be Adeline anymore." Natalya didn't look up at him when she spoke, keeping her eyes locked on the city.

"One mission in and you're already done with your fake identity? I've been doing this for almost nine years. Get over yourself."

"He spoke to me like I was an object."

"That's who Heydrich is," Roderich said.

"They have the nerve to think I would sleep with anyone," Natalya snapped, putting a hand up to the glass.

"We are supposed to be romantically involved. And it did get him to shut up."

Natalya looked back at Roderich, red lips drawn into a tight line. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Should I be getting something more than you've never been insulted by an official?" Roderich asked.

"I don't want to be just a sex object," she said. "I don't want to be thought of as some Parisian whore you picked up. Can't Francis make me more respectable than that? He made you a Nazi composer, for God's sake. A Jewish man making music for the Reich."

"Can't you play your part and stop complaining about how you want to be someone else?"

"You're not the one being made into a harlot."

"And that means I have it so much easier than you do?" Roderich said. "Please, grow up already. You've been Adeline for no more than a month. I've been von Wolffe for eight years. I've hid my religion, my family, my past, my brother, every damn thing about me for eight years. What struggles do you have? You get accused of being a whore once by a drunk man."

"You don't know half the shit I've been through," Natalya snarled, turning away from Roderich again. "I saw my own sister get arrested and sent to Auschwitz. I saw my brother be taken away. I saw what your people are doing to Soviet prisoners and what mine are doing to German prisoners. I stood in an NKVD office and got told my life was worthless," she said, her voice cracking. "You stayed in your little life and got divorced. You got to live the life you wanted to live, not the life other people wanted you to live."

"You think I had a choice whether I wanted to write music for Hitler?"

"You think I had a choice whether I wanted to be sent out here on an assassination mission to kill you?"

"…What?" Roderich's voice was barely audible. "You…You're going to do what?"

"You heard me right, von Wolffe. I was supposed to put a bullet in your head and go back to Russia!" Natalya shouted, refusing to look Roderich in the eye. "The NKVD sent me out here to end you. I tried to kill you nine damn times and failed! Someone always got in the way, be it Basch or Ludwig. And then I ran into Francis, made up some bullshit lie about being a fugitive working with the Underground, and now I'm standing here in Berlin with the man I was out to kill."

Roderich slowly reached for his gun.

"I'm not planning on killing you anymore," she said, returning back to her cold manner. "If you want to shoot me in the back, fine. I don't care. I won't try to fight it, either. I have no intentions of ever hurting you."

"You're not making sense anymore," Roderich said, keeping his hand on the pistol in his pocket.

"I can't kill you now. See, I wasn't planning on you having a good heart. I thought you were going to be horrible like the rest of them. But you're so damn _good."_ She sighed, turning to face Roderich. For the first time since Roderich met her, there was a real emotion on her face – sadness. "I can't kill a good man."

"Natalya, I…" Roderich faltered, not knowing what he meant to say. What was there even to say? Natalya was acting like a human for once, not some cold military machine. "Thank you," he said after a long pause. "Thank you for not killing me when you had the chance. I'm sorry I said those things to you, and I hope you won't reconsider my death."

"Forget I said anything. As far as you know, I'm your standard Russian." Natalya pulled on the sleeves of her coat, looking down at the floor. "I can understand if you want to stop the mission, too. I'll let you go home."

"No, no, I can't do that yet. We've still got to burn down the Reichstag."

Natalya almost-smiled. "Right. We've got to set the government on fire."

* * *

"Good morning," Francis said softly, the dark lines under his eyes telling the story of the night before. Basch groaned, turning away from his cousin. His side and arm screamed in agony, his head pounded, and he didn't want a Francis lecture. There was no worse way to wake up.

"Don't be so rude." Francis sat down on the edge of the bed, the springs in the mattress creaking. "I'm not going to nag you, so you can look at me again. I'll save the sermons for when you're fully conscious."

"Meaning?" Basch asked, looking over his shoulder at Francis. He gave Basch a weary smile, running a hand through his blond curls.

"You've been sort of in and out of it," Francis said. "It's too early to lecture you. So, how are you feeling?"

"Amazing. I forgot how much fun it is to be shot. Especially by a Gestapo man."

"Stop being sarcastic."

"Do you want me to lie to you?" Basch asked, wondering who'd patched him up. They'd pulled the bandages on his chest too tight, making things hurt worse than they should've. He couldn't remember a lot after getting into Francis' car back at the inn; everything after that was brief and delirious.

"No, I just want honest and useful answers. I need you to tell me if something's not right. You know about this better than I do," Francis said. "I've never been shot before."

"It's your typical pain that occurs when a Gestapo man puts a bullet in your chest for no reason," Basch said. Francis' weary smile faded, his thick patience seeming surprisingly thin. Something or someone must've really rubbed him the wrong way.

"Basch, please. You almost died last night. That's nothing to joke about." Francis paused for a moment, studying Basch. His eyes strayed down to the bandages peeking out from under the sheets, lingering on the rusty stains. "Can you please be serious about this? Are you alright?"

"If I wasn't alright, you'd hear about it. I'm positive I'm fine," Basch assured him. "Can you tell me what happened while I was out?"

"I'd prefer not to. It all happened rather fast and I was driving. You can ask Lilli, though. I don't know how much she'll tell you."

"Where is she?" Basch said, looking around the room. It didn't look like a hospital room or even an inn room. More like an empty bedroom that hadn't been used for several years. "And where exactly are we?"

"I'd also prefer not to answer that," Francis said. "Why don't you try to go back to sleep and I'll explain this in the morning."

"Francis. Where are we?" Basch snapped. "Stop trying to hide things from me. If you're not going to tell me, I'm going to find out myself. You won't like it when I find out things myself."

"We're in Salzburg. I tried to stop in Innsbruck. We had a Gestapo man following us. I took us up through Germany." Francis held his head, preparing to be screamed at.

Basch, on the other hand, didn't know where to start with his questions. There were so many open ends and things to be answered – they could be there for hours. "We're not being followed anymore, right?" he said, picking an easy place to start.

"No, I lost them when we crossed the border into Germany. Illegally."

"There's nothing wrong with a little illegal activity."

"For you, there's no problem," Francis said. "For me…oh, never mind. Anyway, after you passed out, Lilli and I had a panic attack and she got you to stop bleeding. That girl knows what she's doing, Basch. She's probably better than some of those nurses they've got on the front."

"Lilli bandaged me up?" Basch asked. She wouldn't have pulled the bandages so tight.

Francis shook his head. "It was temporary. So when we went through Germany –"

"Illegally. You crossed the border illegally."

"Will you shut up and let me tell you the story?" Francis growled, Basch instantly stopping. "I lost the Gestapo man and got back to Austria before the Germans even knew we were there. I got back over the border legally, although the guard wasn't very fond of you being passed out. And once we got that matter sorted out, I got us to Salzburg in one piece," he said. "Then we got you stitched up and now we're here."

"Where exactly is here?" Basch said. "It doesn't look like an inn. And where's Lilli?"

Francis bit his lip, choosing his words carefully. "She's downstairs. And I don't know if you're ready to find out where we are."

"As long as we're not in a Gestapo holding cell, I think I can handle it."

"You have to promise not to shout at me, because it isn't a place you probably want to be."

"Will you save the dramatics and tell me already?" Basch growled – what could be so bad about the place? It looked nice enough, nicer than some places Basch was used to hiding in. Why was Francis so concerned about how Basch was going to react to it?

Francis got up, taking a few steps back from Basch. "So…do you know anyone from Salzburg? Someone kind of important?"

"Uh, no?" Basch said, hoping he wasn't supposed to know an important someone. "What are you trying to say?"

"Do you know any divorced ex-Jews from Salzburg?"

"You're joking."

Francis gave him an uncomfortable grin. "We might be staying with Roderich's father and he might be the one who patched you up and Lilli might be downstairs with him as we speak."

"Stop bullshitting me, Francis. You really expect me to believe you'd leave Lilli with Roderich's asshole of a father?"

"Have I ever been a responsible parent?"

Basch thought about that for a second. "…You bastard," he growled, pushing the sheets aside. "How could you leave Lilli with a madman?!"

"He doesn't seem quite as insane as Roderich's described him being," Francis said in a sad attempt at saving himself.

"And Hitler looks like a nice man!" Basch got up, grabbing his shirt from where Francis had left it neatly folded on the bed. Without waiting for his cousin, Basch stormed out of the room and down the hall. Francis shouted something after him but didn't bother to chase him, probably too tired to get up.

Basch went down a staircase, stepping into the main room. He could hear a radio playing somewhere, a smooth voice talking underneath the harsh German reporter's. And then Lilli chimed in, sounding almost happy. Surely that was some sort of mistake – from the way Roderich spoke of his father, Basch thought the man was the pure essence of evil.

He followed Lilli's voice, coming to a partially open door. From inside he could hear Lilli talking with the man, mentioning Basch's name a few times. Basch pushed open the door enough that he could see in, startled to find Lilli standing at a counter with a blonde woman, the two peeling potatoes together. The two of them almost looked related, both having long blonde hair with braids.

Lilli glanced up.

"Basch?"

Suddenly, Basch found himself with a fourteen-year-old girl wrapped around his waist, rambling on about things Basch couldn't understand. The blonde woman looked over at Basch, and he realized that she was very much not a she.

"I see you're awake," the man said, putting down his knife. "You shouldn't be walking quite yet. I have tried to do stitches for years and they may not hold."

"You wouldn't happen to be Herr Edelstein, would you?" Basch asked.

The man smiled. "Yes, I am Herr Edelstein. I assume my son's already told you what a monster I am."

"You don't even look like him," Basch said. "You look more like my father than you do his."

"Roderich is a freak of nature. He doesn't look like me or his mother. And he may have changed even more, I haven't seen him in ten years. Is he still wearing those fake glasses?"

"They're fake?" This time it was Lilli that spoke, turning back to the man.

"He thinks they make him look smarter or more aristocratic. He's got perfectly fine eyesight," Herr Edelstein said. "And I'd prefer if you'd wear a shirt in my house, Basch."

"Oh, ja, sorry." Basch pulled the bloodstained t-shirt over his head, going over to the kitchen table and sitting down. Lilli followed close behind, claiming the chair next to him.

"Did Francis tell you that a fourth of the Reichstag was destroyed last night?" Herr Edelstein asked. "They've lost a good ten million marks of paperwork alone."

"I'm surprised the two went through with it," Basch said. "I was expecting Natalya to make some sort of attempt on Goebbels' life and ruin the whole mission."

"I'm surprised my son's doing something worthwhile with his life. All I'd heard about him was that he was writing music for Hitler and he got divorced. Which wasn't much of a surprise."

"Do you know that he's an alcoholic?"

"Again, not a surprise," Herr Edelstein said. "That boy is constantly having some sort of crisis. It's only a matter of time until I get caught in another one. He's managed to keep me out of them for ten years. He'll be back at some point. I'll fight the fight he wants to have, win the war, and send him back to Vienna where he belongs."

"And do you know that he's been visiting a prison camp to talk with his ex-wife and Ivan?" Francis said, coming into the kitchen. He sat down at the table beside Basch, putting his head down and closing his eyes. Basch almost felt a twinge of sympathy.

Herr Edelstein stopped, looking over his shoulder at Francis. "Ivan wouldn't happen to be Ivan Braginsky, would he?"

" _Oui_. He's a big brute with a pink scarf."

"I swear to God," Herr Edelstein muttered, clutching the knife tighter. "I hate that Braginsky man, and Roderich knows it. Ivan is nothing but bad, and I shouldn't have kept him here for five years. He's got something planned, I can promise you that. He might be pretending to be loyal to Roderich. Roderich's too dense to see Ivan has one person in mind. Himself."

* * *

"Don't make me."

"Toris," Ivan said in his _I'm-the-authority_ tone. "I don't want this to get worse."

"I know, I know. I'm a bit sensitive about the matter. It wasn't that hard to talk about when I thought I was going to die," Toris said. "So can we please forget about this until later?"

"You're either going to take your shirt off or I'm going to do it for you."

Toris hung his head in defeat, grabbed the end of his army green sweater and pulled it over his head. Immediately his face grew hot, his gaze going down to the floor to avoid Ivan's. Thankfully, Ivan didn't say anything as he pulled the dirty bandages from Toris' chest. He could see the scars; he knew why they were there as well as Toris did. So why didn't he say anything?

"You seem better today," Ivan said as he wiped a rag over Toris' stitches. The same hand that had caused those scars was trying to fix them. Toris almost smiled at the irony of it. "Are you feeling better?"

"I think so. I might want to try make it to roll call today, if that's alright with you."

"I don't mind." Ivan ran his finger down an older scar, Toris desperately trying not to wince or scream. "Your scars are looking better, too."

"Oh," was the only thing Toris could say. He wanted to say so many more things and couldn't.

"I remember this one," Ivan said, his words darker than before. "December 30th. My birthday."

"Can we please talk about something else?" Toris choked, wishing he didn't sound so desperate. He wanted to be stronger than he was, strong enough to stand up to Ivan's wrongs and bring out his rights.

"You don't deserve these, _malyutka_."

"Sir, I don't want to talk –"

"We need to talk about this," Ivan insisted, taking a roll of bandages from a shelf by his bed. "We can't keep ignoring our past. Acting like it didn't happen will make it happen again. We tried to forget about it the first time, and look what's happened."

"Why do you say _we?"_ Toris asked before he could stop himself.

The room went quiet.

"You think this is all my fault?" Ivan said in a not-quite whisper. "I caused everything?"

"No, sir, it's just that you forgot about it and I didn't. I forgive. I never forget."

"Are you blaming me?"

Toris took a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists. "Yes. I am blaming you. The reason we have to talk about things like this is because you get yourself drunk and don't remember what you've done."

"You don't think you're a part of the problem?" Ivan asked. He was wiping at Toris' stitches rougher now, going right back to violence. Violence was always the answer.

"The better question is _you_ don't think you're a part of the problem?"

Ivan dug his fingers into Toris' shoulder. "I am your saviour. And sometimes I can get rough, but it's never been intentional. I do not see myself as part of this problem. You're the one who brings this on yourself," he continued. "You're the one who makes me angry and defies me and crushes whatever I have left inside of me."

"I do no such thing," Toris snapped. "You hurt me for no damn reason!"

"You push me to my breaking point every day!" Ivan shot back, his hand moving from Toris' shoulder to his throat.

"You make me into nothing! You take everything from me and throw it away! You were the one who sent Raivis out of here!"

"To try and save his worthless life!"

"Worthless?!" Toris pulled Ivan's hand off of his neck, backing away from the man. Ivan gave him a childish grin, getting up from the bed. He traded the bandages for the wolf carving, making sure Toris saw it.

"He is a boy. A useless, clumsy boy. Like you once were," Ivan said, running his thumb over the delicate wolf. "And may I remind you that the only reason you're still alive is because I almost gave up everything for you?"

"You sent me to hell, Ivan. The right thing would've been to let me die. Then you had to go play hero, and look at me now! They've ripped me apart and taken everything while you sat here crying about how you're so miserable." Toris pulled his sweater back on, hiding the scars and stitches. "You didn't care what was happening to me or Raivis or Eduard. You're just so damn selfish that you can't look past your own worries!"

"Who is the one that cleaned you up? Who is the one that invited you into their office so you would be separated from the sickness? Who is the one who fed you and stayed up with you and listened?" Ivan paused for a moment, putting the wolf figure back on his desk. "Would that be me?"

"You're setting me up for something," Toris snapped. "You're always setting me up for something. It started the first day you met me."

"I saved your life and this is how you treat me?" Ivan laughed to himself, pulling a knife and a lighter from his pocket.

Toris suddenly felt a little less rebellious.

"I suppose you think you're doing the right thing," Ivan carried on. He stabbed the knife into the wolf figure, holding the lighter up to one of its legs. Toris watched a gentle flame crawl up the wolf, enveloping it in oranges and yellows. "And you are assuming I will get scared and bow down to you. I have news for you, Toris. I am not afraid of you."

The whole wolf was on fire, burning up into smoke.

"I am so much stronger than you'll ever be," Ivan said with a smile, grinding the burning figure into an ashtray on his desk. "Before you can get to me, I will crush you. So I'd rethink your revolution. Because I am the one thing between you and Mauthausen."

The three knocks for roll call broke the tension of the office, and Ivan left without another word to Toris.

"Oh, my God," Toris said to himself as he got to his feet. He hadn't ever dreamed of standing up to Ivan, and now, there was seasoned criminal up against him. It was stupid, oh-so painfully stupid.

And he'd loved it.

Toris felt like he had power again, something he could rarely call his own. He'd stood up to the most powerful man in the stalag, and clearly won. Ivan never left a fight unless the other person was crying and pleading for mercy. When he walked out, Toris knew that he'd won. Ivan couldn't drag up anything to use against an innocent man.

His head held high, Toris went out to roll call for the first time in days and took his place. Ivan wouldn't look at him. A few whispers rose up, summaries of the fight and bets being placed on when Toris would be dead.

"Report!" Gilbert shouted, coming over to their group. Strange, he hadn't been coming into the Soviet compound since the quarantine.

"Herr Commandant?" the guard in charge said, obviously unprepared to see Gilbert. The Prussian rolled his eyes, daring to glance over at Toris. He gave the man a subtle nod of respect, blatantly ignoring Ivan.

"I want a report," Gilbert said. "And you are expected to answer."

"Oh, right! All present and accounted for."

" _Danke_ ," Gilbert said. "Laurinaitis, Braginsky, come with me. I have some matters to go over with you."

Ivan went over to the man, refusing to acknowledge Toris' existence. Toris, knowing he was dead, followed close behind, staying near the commandant. If worst came to worst, he figured he could get at least some help from Gilbert.

"Are you two alright?" Gilbert asked as he led them out of the compound, the gates closing behind them. "You're not very talkative today."

"We're just fine, sir," Ivan answered sharply, making Toris feel shorter than he was.

"That's not a 'just fine' Ivan voice," Gilbert teased, oblivious to their situation. "You should've threatened to kill me or something."

"I've wasted my murder threats already." Ivan's indigo eyes went to Toris for an instant. "When I think of some more, I'll tell you."

"That's the spirit." Gilbert stepped up onto the porch of the office and immediately stopped, looking out at the gate. A black Gestapo car was right outside, one of the guards speaking with the driver. A white dog's head poked out of the back window, barking at the guard.

The car was let in – despite quarantine rules – and came to a stop in front of the office. The dog in the back started barking again when he saw Gilbert, itching to be let out. A door was thrown open and a _kriminalinspektor_ stepped out. Toris knew he'd seen him in the camp before, he'd come in over the summer to talk with Gilbert. Was he from Graz?

" _Guten Tag_ , Ivan. It's a pleasure to see you again," the man said with a smile. "I see you've got your friend with you."

"Drop dead," Ivan growled through clenched teeth. The man must've been from Graz – they were so familiar with Ivan there that he had no problem making threats to them.

"Uh, what do you think you're doing?" Gilbert said, stepping down from the porch. The Gestapo man was noticeably taller than the colonel, and the two bore a striking resemblance to each other. "I'm trying to work here."

"We're on a road trip!" a new voice shouted, another Gestapo man getting out of the car. "Hello, I'm Hochstetter, pleased to meet you. We're heading out to Salzburg to arrest a von Wolffe."

"To arrest who?" Ivan said. Hochstetter looked over at Ivan, his smile somehow getting bigger.

"Hey, haven't seen you in a while," Hochstetter said. "And look who you've got with you. I'm not going to say I was right, but I was right. And it's a von Wolffe. We've got inside information, from a special Russian source."

Ivan's face went pale.

"What he's trying to say is that we're going to arrest Roderich von Wolffe's father and figured you'd want to come along," the still unnamed Gestapo man explained. "Please save me from this. I've been in a car with him for three hours."

"Ludwig, I've got better things to spend my Christmas doing," Gilbert said. So the Gestapo man was his brother? Toris had imagined him looking more like Gilbert, not like a perfect Nazi man.

"What could you possibly be doing that's so much more important than saving your little brother?"

"Elizabeta."

It took Ludwig a moment to register what Gilbert said, his face going red. Hochstetter smiled again – did he ever stop?

"I already like you," he said. "Get in the car, we'll have you back in time for Christmas."

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Magnesium pencils: I have no clue if these things are real or not. I saw them on** _ **Hogan's Heroes**_ **once, which isn't a very trustworthy show. Basically, you pushed the two ends together and they set off a mini-explosion, which caught stuff on fire. I've also heard that if you have a magnesium pencil sharpener, you can catch those on fire and they burn brighter than flares. Pretty cool stuff.**

 **The Reichstag: Nazi Germany's government building. It started out as a regular congress until the Nazis slowly started taking over and removed or even killed all of the communists and socialists. It only met 20 times over the course of 1933 to 1945, but created the laws that set the stage for WWII. The biggest of these were the Nuremberg Laws, which decided what races were "honourable" and who could be Reich citizens. They also held a referendum for the Austrian** _ **Anschluss,**_ **in which 99.7% voted in favour of the annexation.**

 **And, yes, the Reichstag was set on fire once in 1933 by a Dutch communist named Marinus van der Lubbe. He was arrested and tried along with three Bulgarians. Van der Lubbe was executed and Nazi Germany had it out for the communists.**

 **In case any of you were wondering, Roderich's father is supposed to be Germania. I know he's technically Ludwig and Gilbert's, but I didn't have it in me to write up a whole new character. I do hope you understand.**

 **Thank you's go out to** Lunar Loon **,** GWildt **,** EllaAwkward **,** Comix and Co **, and** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **for saving my ass so many times! You guys are the best a writer could ask for!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	19. Giojoso

"Ivan, we talked about this. Make eye contact."

The man did not move, clenching his fists tighter around his scarf.

"Ivan," Gilbert repeated. "Look at me and tell me I can trust you out here while I go over some things with my brother."

"Sir, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to go back to my barrack," Toris said, his voice almost inaudible. Gilbert glanced over at the man, surprised to find him trembling. Moments ago, he'd been perfectly fine.

"It'll take me a few minutes," Gilbert said. "And then I need to talk to you two about some legal things. Can you wait out here alone for a bit?"

A smile spread across Ivan's face, and he looked up. It wasn't one of his normal Ivan smiles, but a "everything is not fine" smile. "Go talk," he said. "We'll be fine out here. Besides, I have some things to talk out with Toris." Ivan turned to the shaking man. "If that is alright with him."

Toris opened his mouth to speak and quickly stopped. He nodded instead, clenching his shaking hands.

"See? We will be fine."

Gilbert, against his better judgement, trusted that fake smile. "I don't want any blood or broken bones." He tried to laugh; it came out nervous and scared. Ivan was acting borderline insane again, and Gilbert wondered if he should be filing for a transfer to a stalag or a mental hospital.

"I can't promise anything," Ivan said smoothly, putting his hand over Toris'. Toris gasped like Ivan's touch burned him, immediately pulling his hand away.

"You're worrying me, Braginsky." Gilbert turned on his heels, going over to his office door. "And I don't like to be worried."

"There is absolutely no reason to worry."

Toris' expression said otherwise.

Gilbert swallowed whatever doubts he had, stepping into the office. Ludwig didn't look up from the file cabinet, pulling another file from the drawer and placing it in a pile on the table beside him. That other Gestapo man flashed Gilbert a grin. There was something unsettling about him, something Gilbert couldn't put his finger on. He was a _kriminalkomissionar_ , so shouldn't he be serious, possibly even more than Ludwig was? Gilbert always thought people got meaner the higher up in rank they were. And it wasn't right for a man to be so upbeat in the middle of a war.

"What are you two doing?" Gilbert asked slowly.

"I alphabetized every single one of these files when I was here in July and somehow, the S's are back with the F's," Ludwig answered. "Oh, and Hochstetter sort of does what he wants. He's got the mind of a perverted five-year-old."

"That's not completely true," Hochstetter said. He didn't seem to be denying the accusation or agreeing with it.

"This is my office, alright? I wouldn't go through your things, so don't go through mine," Gilbert said, going over to the file cabinet. He grabbed the stack of files, shoving them back in the drawer and slamming it closed. "Luddy, stop being such a neat freak. It's fine if things are out of order."

"No, it's really –" Ludwig started, going to pull the drawer open.

"Yes, it is," Gilbert interrupted before Ludwig could go on one of his obsessive-compulsive rants. "Now, about this arrest file. I want details."

Ludwig went over to the desk, grabbing his briefcase. He unlocked it, pulling a file from the inside. Taking the cream coloured folder from his brother's hands, Gilbert opened it to the first page. _Gestapo Headquarters – Vienna_ was printed on the top in bold letters, an eagle holding a swastika stamped beneath them. The letters making up the name were perfectly straight, little soldiers marching across a field. _The_ name.

There it was, typed neatly onto an arrest file: _Von Wolffe, Gerhard E._

The room went still, Gilbert's heartbeat hammering in his one working ear. He was holding the arrest record for Roderich von Wolffe's father. The papers he'd dreamed of since he started seeing Elizabeta. After the file was accepted into the system, Elizabeta would have no one to go back to. Roderich would fall apart after his father was arrested, make a lethal mistake or disappear to Switzerland. There would only be one man in Elizabeta's life –

"Your eyes are red?" Hochstetter broke the silence and the dramatic mood of the office, his eyebrows knitted together. "I've never seen red eyes. Not that they're bad or anything. I think they're neat."

"My brother's a genetic failure," Ludwig replied for Gilbert. "It's called albinism. The red colour is because he doesn't have enough pigment in his irises."

"Can anyone get that?"

"Are you a complete idiot? No, you're born with it. He was born a failure."

"Will you stop referring to me as a failure?" Gilbert snapped, looking over at Ludwig. The _kriminalinspektor_ was organizing Gilbert's desk, empty the drawers onto the mahogany surface. Gilbert watched as his collection of confiscated items was spilled out, pocketknives and lock picks mingling with the desk's usual piles of paper.

"You let your prisoners have knives?" Ludwig asked, holding up one of Sadik's first knives. "What's next, you'll give them wire cutters and German passports?"

"No. That's from our resident Turk, and I don't let him have them. He's a kleptomaniac, and all those things are from Wolfsburg. Usually he reassembles the knives and then sells them to the same people he stole them from," Gilbert said.

"You seem to be alright with him selling them."

"I'm getting 75 percent of the profits."

Ludwig put the knife down like it was toxic. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Can we go back to the arrest file?"

"Right, right. Who wrote this?" Gilbert asked. "It's genius."

"Ludwig," Hochstetter answered, jerking his thumb towards the blond.

"You did this?" Gilbert glanced over at Ludwig. Ludwig gave him a weak "ja" and went back to sorting out the various pins and badges Gilbert amassed over the past two years.

"It's pretty impressive for a kid like him, isn't it?" Hochstetter added. "I didn't think he had it in him."

"You call him 'kid'?" Gilbert asked.

"Unfortunately," Ludwig said before Hochstetter could reply, examining one of the pins Alfred gave Gilbert. He snorted in disgust at the metal bald eagle, pushing it aside. "Hochstetter thinks he's as old as you are."

"Exactly how old are you, Hochstetter?" Gilbert asked, watching Ludwig shove British flag pin from Aruthur almost off the edge of the desk. Ludwig thought he was making Hitler proud, being so discriminatory, when really he looked like a fussy kindergartener.

"I'm twenty-one, almost twenty-two," Hochstetter replied, bringing Gilbert out of his thoughts.

"You're twenty-one?" the Prussian said – he'd expected Hochstetter to be somewhere near his age. "Are you sure?"

"Uh, ja? Am I not supposed to be?" Hochstetter said. "I was born in 1920. And it is 1941, right?"

"No, no, I just figured you were older than that," Gilbert said quickly, trying to hide his surprise. "I'm twenty-eight, and I thought you were around the same age. I mean, you sound like I do and certainly act a lot older than Ludwig."

"You look like you're eighty," Ludwig muttered, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I'd rather be an original than another cut-and-paste German soldier."

"You're a genetic failure."

"And a handsome failure at that," Gilbert said. "You wish you looked this good."

"Good?" Ludwig shook his head in disbelief. "Something must've gone wrong with the genetics in your brain, too."

"I can't fight you on that one." Gilbert turned to another page in the file, skimming through the list Ludwig typed up. Most of it was assumptions and lies, not the absolute facts that he was used to seeing out of his brother. It felt wrong – was the Gestapo so low that even Ludwig would be forced into lying?

"When did you get so devious, Luddy?" Gilbert closed the folder with "Von Wolffe" stamped on the front, handing it back to his brother. Ludwig tucked the folder into his briefcase, going right back to organizing. "I thought you were the good one in the family. But you're coming up with those lies about a stranger and calling me a genetic failure."

Ludwig put the last of the pins into the drawer, pushing it closed. "I'm not devious. I may have twisted the truth more than I should've. That doesn't make me a bad person. And please, don't call me Luddy," he added, going back to his usual taciturn manner.

"Who pissed you off?" Gilbert asked, giving Ludwig a playful shove. Ludwig didn't budge. He nodded towards Hochstetter.

"We're in a love-hate relationship," Hochstetter said after a pause, "sans love. He's already broken my nose once and I don't think he'll be so gentle next time."

"Seriously, Ludwig? Are you getting into fights in Vienna?"

"No. And stop acting like I'm seven again," Ludwig said in a stern voice, one Gilbert hadn't heard him use in a long time. Wasn't he joking and smiling a minute ago? "I am an adult, as are you. I treat you with respect, you treat me with that same respect."

"You're the one who came into my camp uninvited," Gilbert reminded him.

"I did it in a respectful way."

"The guard told me you pulled your gun on him and demanded that you be let in."

"He did it respectfully," Hochstetter said. "And why wouldn't the asshole let us in? Ludwig seemed to know the guy."

"Stalag XVIII-A happens to be under quarantine at the moment. There's a problem with typhus. Legally, you shouldn't be in here," Gilbert said, lowering his voice as if there was someone to hear him.

"We're breaking the law?"

"Yes. No one is supposed to come in or out of this camp without my written permission."

Hochstetter nodded, pretending to understand the severity of the situation. "You can still come to Salzburg with us, right?"

"About that," Gilbert said, folding his hands like he'd seen the generals do when they were about to tell someone they were being sent to Russia. "You see, quarantine means that everyone who's in this camp for longer than 24 hours must be examined before they can leave. Leaving would require me calling in the Wolfsburg doctor, getting examined, writing myself a pass, getting the pass approved by the man in charge of the stalags, and putting someone else in charge of the camp."

"So you're trying to say that you're willing to do all of that to come with us?" Ludwig asked.

Gilbert flashed him a weary smile. "You haven't grown up, Ludwig," he said. "You act like you did when you were four."

"Don't get so nostalgic, you old man," Ludwig said. Gilbert caught the shift in his voice, the little part of him that wanted to be sentimental with his brother. He missed that part.

"You were a cute kid, you know that? Look at you now, all grown up in your fancy Gestapo uniform. You've changed."

Gilbert knew he was lying. Ludwig hadn't changed since then. He had the same stern manner, the same blond hair and blue eyes, and the same Nazi glorified dreams.

Gilbert was the one that changed.

He didn't carry himself the same way anymore. He walked with a bit of a limp and was deaf in his left ear. His eyesight was starting to fail, things going blurry that shouldn't be. That devil-may-care attitude from years ago was trying to hold on, some fragment of him trying to be careless. It urged him forward, pushing him towards Salzburg.

"I can't leave," Gilbert said quietly at first, not sure of his words. "I've…I've got things to do."

Ludwig's smile fell. "Gilbert?"

It wasn't Ludwig scolding his brother. It wasn't a groan or a plead. It was a question.

"I've got a wife now, Luddy. I can't leave her, not on Christmas."

"I understand," Ludwig said.

"No, you don't understand. I want to come with you, I really do," Gilbert said, his voice cracking. "I have responsibilities and I can't get out of here so easily. I wish I could come with you and –"

A loud thump interrupted him, followed by shouting.

"Hey, Gilbert?" The door to the front room cracked open, Elizabeta stepping into the office. "I just walked in, and Ivan has Toris pinned to the ground. You might want to come out here."

"…What?"

Gilbert was in the front room in an instant. And like Elizabeta said, Ivan was on top of Toris, holding him down and screaming things in a language that wasn't quite Russian. Tears rolled down Toris' face, the man helpless against Ivan. Gilbert – being the professional he was – stood in the doorway gawking at the two, trying to make sense of the scene.

"Are you going to stop them?" Elizabeta asked in a hushed voice. "I don't want to be cleaning blood out of the floor again."

"Talk about sexual tension," Gilbert heard Hochstetter mutter from somewhere behind him, Ludwig almost laughing.

"How did this start?" Gilbert said, ignoring whatever his brother and Hochstetter were going on about. Elizabeta shrugged – some help she was.

Gilbert sighed, pushing a hand through his white hair. "Elizabeta, I want you to find a psychiatrist that's willing to work with Russians," he said, going over to Ivan. Said Russian didn't stop or back away; he kept shouting.

Gilbert, knowing words were worthless in this situation, grabbed Ivan's shoulders. He pulled the man off of Toris without much of a struggle, easing him back. Ivan didn't say anything, hiding his face with his hands. Toris got up, backing away to the far corner of the room. He kept stuttering a word over and over, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.

"Are you better now?" Gilbert asked like a mother would, putting one hand on his pistol. He wasn't used to running an insane asylum, and the sole way he had a chance of fighting off Ivan was with a gun.

Ivan nodded.

"Do you want to explain what happened?"

"No," Ivan whispered. "No, I don't."

"Alright. You're going to solitary until I come back. Toris," Gilbert said, looking over at the trembling man. "You're going to stay in my quarters tonight. Elizabeta, you're in charge until whenever I return. And Ludwig, I think I need a break from work."

* * *

Eduard ran for the first time since he'd been captured.

He remembered the day he became a prisoner of the Reich better than any other day in his life. Another bland, freezing November day on the outskirts of Krakow. Freezing rain poured down on the group of men huddled in the forest, protecting an ever shifting border. Eduard was trying to convince a new recruit that "arschloch" was German for friend and he should use it if he ever found himself face to face with one.

Eduard had seen plenty of things in his short life. He'd watched people die from just about everything, as his father was a doctor and Eduard was often dragged along to house calls. Because he knew basic first aid and didn't pass out at the sight of blood, they slapped a red cross on his helmet and told him to be a medic. In his military medic stint, he'd treated everything from a gash no bigger than a papercut to a man who'd got his leg blown off by a grenade. Nothing could surprise him.

When Eduard saw the panzer brigade nearing the first row of dragon's teeth, he'd smiled and slapped the private on the back. He said a few words about learning German fast and got ready to drag mortally wounded men away.

Hours later, he found himself comforting a man he didn't know, trying to lull him into death. Rarely was Eduard a medic during a battle – he was an undertaker. The man, barely conscious, whispered a few words and pointed to something behind Eduard.

Eduard turned to find a German soldier with a bloodied rifle.

That same rush of adrenaline he'd felt when the German was chasing him through the forest was with him now. Only, this time, there wasn't a gun aimed at his back. The full weight of a soldier wasn't going to slam into him and knock him to the ground and give him a concussion and a few broken ribs. Nothing was chasing him.

He was running towards a miracle.

The house rose out of the snow like a tombstone, grey and incredibly sad looking. It was the first sign of humanity Eduard found since he started out on his journey. And while it wasn't welcoming in the slightest, it was more than enough for Eduard. It had walls and a roof, a luxury he didn't have for the past three days. Windows were merely an added bonus.

Best of all, the house wasn't abandoned. There were clothes and sheets hanging on the clothesline in the yard, a beat up farm truck was hidden in a snow covered shed, and there were footprints leading up to the front steps. Someone had to live there.

Eduard came to a stop at the rickety fence that surrounded the yard, leaning against a pole. His breath formed wispy clouds in the winter air, the numbness returning to his face and fingers. He'd been so excited to see a house that he'd forgot how cold he was. December wasn't as merciful here as it was in Stalag XVIII-A.

Eduard glanced up at the grey house, a stupid grin spreading across his face. He'd never thought salvation would come in the form of a dingy home in the middle of a field.

Something moved in the window. A shadowy figure slipped out of view, the curtains fluttering back into place.

Someone was home.

Eduard shoved any doubt he had aside, pushing open the front gate. Without a care in the world, he walked right up to the door.

"Hello?" he called out. "I need help."

He was met with not-quite-silence; a floorboard groaned. There were footsteps, delicate and soft. A whisper or two. And a soft squeak, like that of rusty hinges.

A thought occurred to Eduard, one he hadn't come up with before he went up to the door like an idiot. What if the people were scared of him? He was a blond haired, blue eyed soldier in uniform – the wrong uniform, but a uniform nonetheless. He spoke perfect German and ran to the house. Anyone would think he was coming for their family, money, and possessions.

"I'm not a German, if that's what you're thinking," Eduard said, trying to fix his mistakes. "I know I speak German. I can speak Russian, too, if you're comfortable talking to me that way." Eduard bit his tongue – Russia wasn't exactly a friendly country in this war, either. If anything, he'd made the person inside grab a gun.

"Can I please talk to you? I know you're in there, I heard you earlier," Eduard continued, putting a hand up to the door. "I just want to –"

He pushed a little too hard on the door, and it swung open. A man with bright blond hair was standing in the middle of the room, clutching an overfilled bag.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know your door was unlocked," Eduard said, taking a few steps inside. The man with the bag started trembling, reminding Eduard of Toris. The two even had the same green eyes, full of fear and worry.

"I didn't do anything," the man said in rough Russian, backing away towards an open window. "I am innocent. I would never kill."

"What was that about killing?"

The man swung his leg out of the window, holding the bag tighter to his chest. He jumped down, landing in the snowdrifts with a crunch. Eduard barely got to the window in time to see the man disappear into the field, sprinting for a nearby cluster of trees.

And only then did Eduard realize he'd caught a thief in the act.

There was no use shouting after him – the man was long gone. And pursuit was a terrible idea, especially after running from the train tracks to the house. Instead, he shut the door behind him and closed the window. Eduard would wait for the family to come home, and then he'd explain everything and hopefully get pointed towards the nearest town.

Or arrested. Whatever one worked.

"Oh, God," Eduard muttered, looking around the front room. Everything was emptied onto the floor, papers covering the boards and broken glass mixed in like confetti. The thief wasn't going for a clean getaway.

He moved to the next room, the kitchen. Again, all the cabinets were thrown open and things were smashed on the floor. Preserved fruit was scattered with the remains of its jars, the syrup staining the wood and making the room smell sickly sweet. Eduard quickly went to the next room, his stomach churning.

The last room in the tiny house was a bedroom. The sick smell from the kitchen had carried over into the room, and it was somehow thicker. There was a dresser against the wall with its drawers ripped from it and clothes scattered about the floor. A large bed was pushed up against the wall, the sheets in a pile. Eduard wasn't sure if the blankets were patterned with red dots or if that was blood – he prayed it was the former.

And in the far corner, there was another bed. A smaller one, piled with warm blankets. Drawings were tacked up on the walls by the bed, a child's crayon drawings. Eduard could make out a horse, a car, a plane, and a family. It almost made him smile; he remembered what it was like to be young and innocent. He wanted to go back to that.

As he looked back down at the bed, he noticed something sticking out from under the blankets. It appeared to be a tiny black rake, the spines curled slightly up. A stripe of ivory white ran down the side of one of the spines.

What the thief said earlier abruptly made sense. It was not a rake.

It was a hand.

Eduard stumbled backwards, unable to look away from the small hand. Underneath the blankets, there was a body. A _child's_ body. Someone killed a child and hid the body under too many blankets and thought no one would ever find it. Someone's son or daughter was dead.

For the second time since being captured, Eduard ran.

He made it outside before sinking to his knees, his tired body trying to force something up. There was nothing left in him except the thought of the shriveled up hand. His stomach heaved again and tears stung at his eyes. It felt like he stayed there for hours, nothing but bile, flecks of blood, and the fear that he'd built up over the years coming up.

"Is it, like, your first time seeing a dead body?"

The voice caught Eduard off guard; already he was at his weakest. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and Eduard waited for the bullet. At least it would take him away from whatever hell he'd wandered into.

"It's alright," the voice said, "I understand how these things can be upsetting. I tried to hide the body, and I didn't think you'd go looking for it. You Germans don't, like, come back for a Jewish kid's remains."

"I'm...I'm not a German," Eduard whispered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"That's what everybody says, silly. I'm not a complete idiot."

"No, I'm not a German. I come from Estonia."

The voice laughed. "Estonia? I haven't heard that name in years. I'm a Pole, one of those other forgotten countries. And you can look at me."

Eduard shook his head.

"What, you think I'll, like, turn you to stone or something?"

"Just kill me," Eduard said. "I don't want any dramatics. You've got a gun, so do it already."

"I don't have a gun, stupid. I've got a letter opener though. It won't do much damage."

"Then get it over with!"

"I've got no intentions of killing you. And that's pretty cheap, to kill a man when he's down. I'd rather wait until they can put up a fair fight," the voice said. Two worn boots appeared in front of Eduard, and the man kneeled down beside him. Upon closer inspection, the thief couldn't be older than eighteen. He held out his hand and flashed Eduard a smile.

"Name's Feliks. I'm not usually a thief, and definitely not on Christmas."

Eduard took the man's hand. "I'm Eduard von Bock."

"Pleasure to meet you, Eduard von Bock," Feliks said. "What're you doing out here in rural Yugoslavia on Christmas morning? Besides throwing up, I mean."

"I'm in Yugoslavia?" Eduard asked. He knew next to nothing about Yugoslavia; it was another name in his history textbook that he didn't bother to study.

"Uh, yeah. Seriously, what're you doing?"

"I was on one of those cattle trains going out to a death camp," Eduard said. "And I escaped. I'm trying to get back to Austria."

Feliks didn't say anything for a long time. "I don't understand. You're an Estonian, which the Germans hate, and you want to go back to Hitlerville?"

"My family is there."

"Oh, I got you." Feliks smiled again. "Let's go, then. The next train for Vienna leaves at twelve. And that's if there isn't, like, a Jew train coming through." He pulled Eduard to his feet, shoving him towards the shed where the truck was. "Come on, we can borrow their truck. They won't be needing it anytime soon."

"What?" Eduard said, completely confused as to what this stranger was doing.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke. I'm really awful with my humour. My thing's kind of bad puns, which my friends hate. Anyway, I've got some clothes I took from the house, we can get you looking nice and presentable." Feliks grabbed his wrist, dragging him through the yard.

Eduard went with it. He hardly knew Feliks, and he went along with him like they'd known each other forever. He was almost positive the bubbly blond was making plans to kill him or take him straight to the Gestapo for some easy cash. Not that Eduard cared.

The farther he got away from the memory of the hand, the better.

* * *

"Did you hear about the fire in the Reichstag?" Goebbels spoke like the burning of his own government was a trivial matter, no more important than the weather. "They're saying it was arson."

"Arson?" Roderich repeated, forcing back his fear. He couldn't let his voice give him away.

"Yes, arson. What sort of person would be so stupid as to set a fire in the Reichstag? It's like asking for a firing squad or a hanging."

"I have no doubts they'll be found in a week, if not less," Roderich said – and he honestly meant it. Arson was so much worse than killing seven generals, or at least in his mind.

He knew Goebbels was smiling. "Oh, yes. I can't wait to see what Himmler puts together for the criminal. That man gets on my nerves, but God, does he know how to torture a man. It'll be interesting to see how fast they'll give in."

"Very," Roderich said before he could stop himself. He hated agreeing with that man. "I imagine it'll take around a minute or two."

"You want to put money on that?"

"No, sir. I'm already a bad gambler."

"It's your loss, von Wolffe. Anyway, what did you call me for?" Goebbels asked. Roderich knew that wasn't a coincidental thing; Goebbels waited until he'd warmed Roderich up.

Natalya tapped her wrist, reminding Roderich of the time. The train home pulled in a while ago, and there was no guarantee it would wait for them. Roderich nodded, brushing the woman away.

"That recording that I made for you a few days ago. You're planning on using it today, ja?"

"And what's gotten you so concerned? I paid you damn well for it." Goebbels voice took a darker turn. "If you're trying to back out of our contract, I have men who know where you live. And I can track you down easier than you think."

That only made Roderich more nervous about his brush with arson. "No, no, no, it's not that. I was just making sure of things. I get worried about foolish things like that."

"Good. And yes, we are using that recording today, at seven. I doubt you'll be home by then."

" _Danke,_ sir. It's been a pleasure" – more like displeasure – "talking to you, but I have a train to catch."

" _Heil Hitler_ ," Goebbels said in his devilishly smooth voice. God, how Roderich detested that voice.

" _Heil Hitler_."

Roderich hung the phone back on the wall, taking Marlene back from Natalya. He didn't trust the woman with anything valuable for more than two seconds, and his phone call was at least five stressful minutes. Natalya shot him a glare, grabbing her own bag and marching off for the train.

Once the two were hidden in a first class compartment and Natalya had pulled the two microphones from under the seats, Roderich's heart started beating normally. They'd made it out of Berlin alive. Most people who did what they did would've been dead already.

A whistle cut through the stillness of the compartment, and the train lurched forward. Berliners on the platform waved goodbyes and shouted things to their loved ones in the cliché scene Roderich saw every departure. The city came into view, old brick buildings clashing with the new architecture. Roderich caught sight of the Reichstag, a blood red swastika flag flying proudly above it. Ten million marks of paperwork were lost in the fire, _ten million._ He couldn't even imagine what ten million marks of paperwork must look like.

Roderich figured it better not think about it. He'd hate to jinx things for himself and wind up in a jail cell at the mercy of someone like Ludwig or Hochstetter.

"You could've blown everything for us with that call," Natalya said out of nowhere, glancing over at Roderich. "Thanks, asshole. I could've died today because you can't handle talking to Goebbels."

"For your information, Basch wanted me to call," Roderich shot back.

"Basch isn't exactly the smartest man in Austria."

"He's been doing this for longer than you."

"So?" Natalya said. "That doesn't make him better than me. Unlike your dear Basch, I know how to read people and manipulate them. Basch knows how to blow things up, fix guns, and cry to Francis and Matthias for help. He's pretty good at the last one. I think I saw tears last time."

"You're incredibly obnoxious today," Roderich said, taking his composition book from his briefcase. He thought Natalya would offer at least a sliver of sympathy – she'd gotten oddly nicer since their fight. But all good things must come to an end, and the end was drawing closer and closer.

"Are you seriously going to work on music?" Natalya asked. "I thought we got done with music time."

"You can never be done with music. And it's better than talking to you for ten hours," he snapped, opening the book to his opera.

"You think everything's better than talking to me for ten hours."

"It's true, isn't it?"

Natalya shrugged, her indigo eyes going to the city outside the window. Roderich stared at her for a second – he knew those eyes. He'd seen them before, much brighter and not so angry. They reminded him of someone, someone he couldn't quite remember.

Brushing the thought aside as a case of déjà vu, Roderich went back to his notebook. He'd been too stressed out about being arrested to do any work on the piece the night before, and now that he had time, he couldn't find a melody to follow. Typically, when he opened his composition book, he could pick right up from where he left off. Unless, of course, something was bothering him.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the blank page. How many times had he looked at the book and felt emptier than the page itself? Natalya was right; music took a lot out of him.

Out of ideas, Roderich put his book back in his briefcase. Something would have to come to him at some point, and then he would write it down. For the time being, he'd wait for that mythical something.

"Gave up?" Natalya asked without looking away from the window.

"It's not necessarily 'giving up'," Roderich said. "I don't have anything to put down at the moment. I'll think of something eventually."

"Or you'll never write music again," Natalya added not-so-comfortingly.

"That's always a possibility."

"What would you do if you couldn't write music anymore?"

Roderich hadn't ever thought of that. Music was such a natural thing for him; he took it for granted. It never occurred to him that some people couldn't read music, let alone write it. What would he have done if he was one of those unlucky people? Stayed working with his demon of a father? Joined the army and already be dead? Ran away to Russia to become a criminal with Ivan?

"I…I don't know," he said. "I think I would be either extremely unhappy, in prison, or dead."

"You, in prison?" Natalya almost-smiled. "What's the worst thing you've done? Forgotten the words to the national anthem? Skipped Jew Mass?"

"I shot my cat when I was six."

Natalya actually smiled for a rare instant, looking over at Roderich. "I didn't think you were such a rebel, fraulein. Killing an innocent cat?"

"My brother made a bet that I couldn't load the gun and hit a swing outside our bedroom window. I shot the swing, so then he doubled the bet and said I couldn't hit our cat. I thought my father was going to kill both me and my brother when he found the dead cat," Roderich said, holding his head. "Ivan put the blame on himself. My father took him away, and he came back with a burn on his neck."

"You had a brother named Ivan?" Natalya asked. "I thought you were an only child."

"He wasn't truly my brother, but an orphan my family happened to pick up. He's from Russia," Roderich said. "He's sort of a wanted criminal."

"There were a lot those in my family. Drug traders, mostly. My uncle said he sold something or the other to Nicholas II. My uncle was also a drunk and overdosed on morphine," she said calmly. Did anything other than Heydrich rattle her? Roderich could've told the woman the war was about to end and she wouldn't care.

"I didn't need to know that."

"Now you do. You've got some criminal evidence to use against me, like how I know you're a Jew. I guess we're even."

"I can't prove you were ever a drug dealer," Roderich said. "The Gestapo wouldn't care about proof of my religion. They'd arrest me if I looked at them the wrong way."

"I'm a Russian, dear. They'll take me just as fast as they'll take you. They'll take anyone, including their own damn people. In Germany's eyes, most of us are equal. Some people are more equal than others."

"For a second there, you almost sounded intelligent. I must've fallen asleep."

Natalya snorted. "Keep dreaming, fraulein. We have ten more hours back to Vienna, and it'd be better with you asleep."

"Same to you, _mein Herr_ ," Roderich replied.

"Thank you, for acknowledging that I am the man in this relationship. I'm wearing the suit at the wedding. You can pick yourself out a pretty white dress."

* * *

"You're up early." Roderich's father didn't bother looking up from the dismantled gun in his lap when Basch entered the room. Not that Basch was expecting more of a welcome than what he got. He'd learned that Herr Edelstein was a man of few words, unless he was giving orders or talking about Roderich.

"I couldn't sleep," Basch mumbled. He'd come downstairs the minute he heard the radio turn on, hoping it was Francis. Of course, Francis was still asleep upstairs. And the radio wasn't even turned to a German station; it sounded like English.

"Something bothering you?"

Basch couldn't answer that. Something implied one nuisance. _Somethings_ were bothering him. They hadn't heard from the family they sent over the border, Francis was strangely quiet and withdrawn, Lilli went into Salzburg alone the day before and refused to tell Basch what she'd done, Basch's stitches had fallen apart once when he mistakenly tried to be helpful and chop wood, and he wanted to go back to Vienna without another incident.

"I got to thinking about too many things at once," Basch said, which wasn't a lie. "And then I couldn't get myself to fall asleep because I was so worried."

"It's always better not to think." Herr Edelstein put a piece back into the pistol, wiping off another one with a dirtied rag.

"My father told me the same thing. Said I think too much about too little, whatever that means." Basch sat down on the couch opposite Roderich's father, running a hand through his hair. He couldn't help but look at the pistol – he truly was a gunsmith at heart, not a saboteur. It was an older model, a prewar gun from a time where guns were still an art. Now everything was one and the same.

"I can see why you're friends with Roderich," he said. "He worries about everything."

"I never said we were friends."

Herr Edelstein looked up. "Then what exactly are you? Lovers?"

"God, no," Basch said, his face growing red at the thought of it. "I work with him, that's it. And even if I was like…like that, Roderich's a hard person to love. You've got to look past a lot of flaws."

"That goes for everyone, doesn't it?"

"Well, ja. I mean, I've got a lot a flaws myself, which is probably why I've never found a girlfriend or anything. And Francis, he's a different story," Basch added, not quite sure why he was telling Roderich's father so much about his life. "Francis is one of those French men you see in the movies. He's on his sixth or seventh divorce. Can't keep a wife for more than three months. He either gets bored with the one he has or the wife finds out that her husband isn't really an accountant."

"Poor man," Herr Edelstein muttered, pushing the last of the pistol together with a click. "Life's hell without a woman."

"If you don't mind me asking, where is Frau Edelstein?"

Herr Edelstein tensed up and Basch knew he'd asked the wrong question.

"She died in 1932. The last time I saw Roderich was at the funeral, and after that, he got out of here. I think he was scared and couldn't handle his mother's death," Herr Edelstein said with a tired smile. "He loved Augusta more than I did. Roderich blamed me for her death. Right after the funeral, he told me he was never going to speak to me again. He hasn't said a word to me since then."

"I'm sorry," Basch said so softly he wasn't sure he'd spoke.

"About what? You asked a question, and I answered. Roderich will be Roderich, no matter what." Herr Edelstein said. "That's how people are. Some of us can't handle it when things go wrong and run away from our problems."

Basch didn't say anything in reply – what was there to say? The room returned back to the gentle quiet, Winston Churchill's drawly voice drowning out Basch's thoughts. He wondered what the Prime Minister was saying on Christmas morning. How many people were listening to his speech, hoping for an end to war? The British people were so foolishly optimistic. While German people didn't have a lot going for them in the war, they were at least realists and didn't think every other win was the end.

"Basch?" Lilli said, poking her head into the room. Her hair wasn't braided yet, falling down around her shoulders in golden waves. "Can I talk to you alone?"

"Is everything alright?" Basch asked as he got up, going over to the girl. She nodded, leading Basch back upstairs to the bedrooms. Lilli pushed open the door to the one she was sleeping in, closing it behind her.

"What's up?" Basch said, his voice shaky with worry. He'd thought up a thousand scenarios that could've happened already, ranging from nightmares to the Gestapo holding Francis hostage.

"Merry Christmas," she said, grabbing a box from the bed and handing it to Basch. "It's not much, but I hope you'll like it."

For a minute, he was too dumbfounded to do anything. Then Basch took the box from her hands, pulling at the ribbon she'd tied around it. He took the lid off, revealing two chocolate bars. Wrapped in shiny blue and yellow paper, the bars were no bigger than Basch's hand, no thanks to war rationing. It was real chocolate, not the black market kind. Basch couldn't even remember the last time he'd had real chocolate.

"Where did you get this?" Basch said, looking back up at the girl. "You can't buy chocolate anymore."

Lilli smiled, green eyes twinkling. "It's a secret."

"You can't tell your brother a secret?"

"Oh, alright," Lilli said in defeat. "Herr Edelstein knows the man who runs the candy store in Salzburg."

"Where'd you get the money for it?" Basch asked.

"I can't tell you that secret."

Basch didn't care where she found the money; not even if she took it from Hitler. He pulled the girl close, holding her in a tight hug. She put her arms around his waist, holding onto him like he was the last thing she had in the world.

In a sad way, he was.

"Thank you so much," Basch whispered, kissing the girl's forehead. "You didn't have to do that."

"I felt bad that you got shot. It was the least I could do for you after what you did for me," Lilli said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

"Here, why don't you have one?" Bash said. He took one of the bars from the box, holding it out towards her.

"I couldn't. They're yours."

"Lilli, please. I don't need two."

"Yes, you do. You like chocolate almost as much as Herr von Wolffe likes drinking."

Basch didn't try to resist a grin. "That's not very nice, coming from you."

"It's true, isn't it?" Lilli pushed the chocolate back towards him. "You keep –"

"Basch?! Basch, we have a big problem!"

Basch groaned quietly – Francis was overreacting again. Who knew what emergency he'd come up with? Basch opened the door and made it one step into the hallway before Francis found him, grabbing the man by the shoulders.

"What?" Basch snapped, the words coming out meaner than he intended.

"A Gestapo car pulled up. A Gestapo car," Francis repeated, his wild blue eyes flicking over to Lilli. "We're leaving," he said to the girl. "Hurry up and get dressed."

"Calm down, Francis," Basch said although he was already beginning to panic. "Are you sure it's Gestapo and not a nice old lady?"

"Do nice old ladies drive black Mercedes with swastikas on them and have big German shepherds in the back seat?"

Basch's heart sank. His old lady theory wasn't going to work.

Without an explanation, Francis took Basch into the adjoining bedroom. He went to the window, pulling back the curtains just enough that Basch could see the black Mercedes with swastika flags parked by the road, a huge white German shepherd halfway out of the back window. A blond man in SS uniform got out of the car, scratching the dog behind the ears.

"Jesus, Francis, that's Ludwig," Basch gasped, backing away from the window. He'd recognize that blond anywhere. "We've got to get out of here."

Basch didn't bother to grab anything other than his shoes and the bag full of food. He left the room while Francis was shoving paperwork and _Reispasses_ into a briefcase, counting over and over to ten in French. It was an old trick Francis' mother taught the two of them, one that calmed Francis down. It could never tame Basch. Nevertheless, he found himself counting to ten.

 _Un, deux, trois_ –

"Herr Edelstein," Basch said when he got downstairs, grabbing the man's arm. "The Gestapo is out there. We need to leave, right now."

 _Quatre, cinq, six_ –

The man held up the pistol he'd been cleaning earlier. "They have nothing against me. From what I've heard, you're quite the criminal up in Vienna."

 _Sept, huit, neuf_ –

"I can't leave you here with the Gestapo! I know those men, and they want you and your son dead! Come with us," Basch begged. "Francis will take us up to Vienna, and he can get you a pass to Switzerland. Maybe Roderich will talk to you again."

 _Dix._

"This is my home," Herr Edelstein said. "I cannot leave it. You get yourself and the other two out of here in one piece. I may be older than I was in the war, but I can hold my own. You're injured, and Francis doesn't look like he could hurt anyone. Go on."

"You have the chance to escape!" Basch snarled. "If you don't come, you are going to be dead!"

"No one gets out of Salzburg, Basch. There's only been one successful escape. I am not Georg von Trapp. I am not some rich navy man. I do not have the money to escape to America and live out the rest of my days with my family. You make death out to be a horrible fate for me. Maybe it'll be for the best."

Basch stood there, wordless.

Then he nodded. He understood.

" _Danke_ , Herr Edelstein," he said. "I won't forget this."

"Say hello to Roderich for me. And tell him I love him and I don't blame him for running away from an angry old man like me," Herr Edelstein said, giving Basch a nudge towards the back door where Francis and Lilli were waiting. They'd seen everything.

Basch held back the hundreds of protests he'd always made, going over to the door. Francis gave him a look before opening the door, stepping out onto the back porch. Basch took Lilli's hand in his own, taking a deep breath.

 _Un, deux, trois_ –

The three of them ran towards the side of the house where the car was parked.

 _Quatre, cinq, six –_

Francis pulled the keys from his pocket as he rounded the corner.

 _Sept, huit, neuf –_

A man with devilish red eyes was sitting on the hood of the car, aiming a pistol right at Francis.

 _Dix._

"Well, hello," the man said in mock friendliness. "I wasn't expecting to see Christian Kleiner and Basch Zwingli at the house of a Jew. Oh, wait." He smiled a wolfish smile. "I was."

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Genetic failure – Nazi Germany was a little too interested in genetics. They studied genetics and races to try and come up with the formula for "the master race" – blond haired, blue eyed, square jaw, and small nosed soldiers. And while albinism is caused by genetics, it is by no means a terrible failure. Ludwig would only think of it this way because of the way he was taught.**

 **Winston Churchill's Christmas address – This was a real thing Churchill did in 1941, but broadcast on Christmas Eve instead. I moved it around for the sake of the story, so sue me. You should go look it up and read it/listen to it, because it's very moving. He spoke at the White House just weeks after Pearl Harbor, at the lighting of the community Christmas tree. And God, was he a cool man.**

 **Von Trapps – Popularized by** _ **The Sound of Music,**_ **the von Trapps were real people with a much more exciting story than the movie made it. They did escape, but not to Switzerland carrying instruments and singing. They instead went to Italy, where the von Trapps then immigrated to America and had their last child, Johannes. Johannes is still alive, and runs the von Trapp cabin up in Vermont. Go see it if you get the chance, you won't regret it.**

 **Thank you's go out to** ABCSKW123-IX **,** Lunar Loon **,** Isaak-Faust **,** EllaAwkward **, and** Comix and Co **! You guys are cooler than Winston Churchill and the whole von Trapp family combined!**

 **See you all next chapter**!


	20. Tanto

The pale ghost of a man slid down from the car, stalking over to the group. "It would be in your best interest to do as I say," he said, gesturing to Basch with the pistol. "I have every damn right in the book to put all three of you up against that wall and shoot you. Please, don't tempt me. Put your hands where I can see them and don't you dare move."

"Legally, you can't kill us," Basch said. The colonel turned on his heels, his pistol aimed right for Basch's head. Basch kept perfectly still, locking eyes with the man. If he was going to die, Basch made sure the man would remember it.

"My, you're rather bold." The colonel went over to Basch – much to Basch's dismay, the colonel was much taller than him. Despite being at a disadvantage, Basch looked up at him with an unimaginable amount of hatred. "Clearly, you've never been held at gunpoint before. You're supposed to be _quiet."_

"I have a right to speak," Basch snapped. "You can't force me to do anything."

"I fought against Polish partisans, Zwingli. I know every trick rebels like you have." Gilbert put the gun level with Basch's forehead. "Empty your pockets."

"Make me."

"Make you?"

"You heard me right. Make me."

"You're injured, aren't you?" the man asked smoothly.

"How would you know?" Basch shot back as he lowered his hands, curling them into fists.

"You've got a bloodstain on your coat, before I told you to put your hands up you were holding your side, and you got very defensive when I mentioned an injury," he said, pointing to said bloodstain. "It's simple. Now, if you don't empty your pockets, I will make you."

"You have no power over me. Go ahead, do what you want."

"I heard the same damn thing from every single partisan brat I shot. You're weaker than most of them, Zwingli, especially with that injury. I'm not one for blood, however, you're forcing me to turn to violence. This is your last chance to comply with my orders."

"My brother's stronger than you'll ever –" Lilli started before Francis put a hand over her mouth. Francis stepped in front of the girl, giving the colonel a flustered grin.

"She doesn't mean it!" Basch stammered – Lilli never spoke out like that. "She's just a girl. Don't hurt her."

"How old are you, Lilli Zwingli?" the colonel asked, going over to where the girl was hiding behind Francis.

"I'm fourteen."

"I am twenty-eight years old. That makes me twice your age, Lilli Zwingli," the man said. "You have no authority over me, and you shouldn't even think about talking to me like you just did. If you'd like to live past fourteen, you should _shut up."_

"Stop talking to her like that," Basch snarled, his hand reaching for the P38 shoved in his coat. He couldn't stand there and wait for the madman to murder his sister. Basch had to do something, and he had to do it at that second.

He'd barely gotten the gun out of his pocket before the colonel turned on him.

Basch didn't quite register the gunshot until he saw the empty casing in the snow. He dropped the P38, taking a few steps back. Why was he still standing? If there was really a bullet in his heart, why did nothing hurt? He dared a look down at his chest. It wasn't torn up or bleeding. There wasn't a hole in his coat.

And then he realized his left hand was bleeding. There was a rough scrape across the back of his hand, one that hadn't been there before. He wiped the blood off on his pants, standing tall once more like nothing had happened.

"Oh, you're innocent, are you?" the colonel asked, lowering the pistol. "And on what accounts? I am working with the Gestapo at the moment, I am a decorated military hero, and the Führer would happily overlook the deaths of three people who were staying in a Jew's house. You've insulted me and pulled a gun on me, a sweet colonel who meant no harm. So," he continued after a pause, "What do you have to defend yourself?"

"The fact that we've done nothing wrong should be enough," Basch said, amazed there wasn't a hole in his hand. The colonel had some talent.

"Did you not hear the part that you were staying in a Jew's house? In case you've been living under a rock for the past ten years, the Jews are the enemy. Get your pacifist mind out of whatever fantasy world you're in and wake up already."

"I think you've got the wrong man," Francis said in his soft German. "That's Gerhard von Wolffe's house, and his family –"

"I don't care what bullshit lies you've made up," the colonel said. "You must think I'm an idiot. I've heard what you're doing, Christian Dietrich Kleiner. Or is it Christian Francis Kleiner?" He put a hand to his face in mock thought – all the while keeping his pistol aimed at Basch.

"How would you know about that, Gilbert Beilschmidt?" Francis said without a hint of worry. "You don't exactly pay attention to details. You somehow overlooked Elizabeta's wedding ring."

"A name mysteriously changing is hard not to notice. And I knew very well that she was married. That's what makes an affair fun."

"Wait, who are you?" Basch asked; he couldn't have heard that name right.

"I'm Colonel Gilbert Beilschmidt," the man introduced himself with a grin. "For the time being, you can call me Gilbert. Pleased to meet you."

"You're the bastard that stole Roderich's wife?"

The words tumbled out of Basch's mouth before he could stop them. It wasn't his fault Gilbert introduced himself and Basch recognized the name. Roderich cursed Colonel Gilbert Beilschmidt so much that everyone in Vienna's Angels was accustomed to throwing in a snarky remark of their own. And the man was so dreadfully infuriating that Basch couldn't help but snap back.

"Everything always goes back to Roderich, doesn't it?" Gilbert asked without looking at Basch. His words were monotone, each syllable colder than the last. "None of us would be here if it wasn't for that man. I hate to think that the three of you were once good people until Roderich dragged you down to his level. Would you care to explain what idea of Roderich's sent you out here?"

"It isn't any of your business," Basch said. "Why don't you run along and let us go our separate ways?"

"You are aware that I am the one with the gun, right?"

"Ja. You've had it pointed at me this whole time."

"I was just checking," Gilbert said. "I thought grazing your hand would get you to stop whatever act you're doing. And you've kept going. So, would you like to start the questions or do you want to skip to the part where I kill you?"

"I don't have to answer anything."

"What brought you three out to the Jew's house?" Gilbert leaned up against Francis' Mercedes rather nonchalantly, as if he was asking a friendly question.

"We came to speak with Roderich's father about some things," Francis said. "There were a few issues that we needed to talk out."

"Like what?"

"Roderich's divorce," Francis answered bitterly. "The one you caused."

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his snowy hair. "You keep pinning the blame on me. This is about you, not me. Leave the divorce out of this."

"You were the one who started the affair, which led to this. You wouldn't be standing here if you'd minded your own damn business."

"Believe what you want, Kleiner. An affair is an affair. It's nothing personal and it doesn't involve you," Gilbert said. "Why did three of you have to come out here when one could've done the job just as well?"

"Because neither of us can trust Roderich to watch Lilli." This time Basch spoke up, taking a step towards his P38. "And why do you need to know this?"

Gilbert raised his pistol again. "Touch the gun and you're dead."

Basch backed away from the P38.

"See? It isn't that hard to follow orders. You could do rather well in the army," Gilbert said. "You're a little too short to be a soldier, though. That and you have a criminal record."

"Then how did you get into the army?" Francis asked before Basch could rip the colonel open for calling him short.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Gilbert said, sounding as confused as Basch was. His red eyes looked away from them for a second – the sign of a liar.

"You have a criminal record, ja?" Francis said. "You shouldn't be a colonel."

Gilbert stood up straight, his smirk gone. "How do you know about that?" he hissed, moving the pistol's aim from Basch's heart to Francis'. "The one person who ever saw those papers was Ludwig."

"Ludwig and the Gestapo and the government," Francis corrected. Gilbert took a deep breath, trying to organize his words he'd so carefully planned.

"How exactly did you get into the army?" Francis continued. "Why was your time in jail suddenly forgotten? I don't believe I ever found out."

"Because it was only a month and my father proved me innocent. I spent half of that month in the hospital, anyway."

"Your beloved father proved you innocent because I messed with the evidence. I took pity on you, Colonel Gilbert Beilschmidt. I changed the papers and made it look like you'd done nothing wrong. You owe your current life to me."

"You didn't do shit," Gilbert said. "They let me out because I didn't purposely kill that man. You don't consciously run into someone with a motorcycle."

"How about you take pity on us?" Francis asked with a smile. "We're not part of anything that may be going on here. And by the way, I kept those original papers. I could always let them…slip back into the system."

Gilbert put his pistol down for the first time since Basch met him. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

They stood there waiting for an answer, no one speaking but somehow understanding each other. Three lives and a job were at stake; which would it be?

"Fine," Gilbert whispered, backing away from the man. That one word was full of a strange desperation, one Basch hadn't heard in a long time. "Go. Get out of here. I won't tell Ludwig anything if you keep my arrest quiet. Are we clear, Kleiner?"

Francis nodded. " _Danke_ , sir. I'm glad we came to an agreement."

"Shut up and get the hell out of here before I decide to shoot you."

For a minute, Basch was too dumbstruck to move. Everything had happened so quickly it was hard to keep it straight. One moment, Gilbert was going to kill them and the next he was letting them go. Francis had talked his way out of a trial and firing squad in less than five minutes.

Francis, still not quite trusting Gilbert, grabbed Basch's P38 from the snow and came over to his cousin. He put the cold pistol in Basch's hand, a tiny grin on his face.

" _I had no idea he had an arrest record_ ," Francis said in almost inaudible French. " _I saw his file when we changed my name at Gestapo Headquarters. It was hidden in Ludwig's desk, so I thought it must've been very secretive."_

 _"You lovable bastard,"_ Basch said, giving the man a playful shove.

Basch took Lilli's hand, leading the girl past the colonel to the car. It felt strange to walk out of a death sentence with their executioner right in front of them. He'd never worked his way out of certain death without a gun – and Francis got them out alive with lies. Basch made a mental note to buy Francis the nicest French wine he could find.

"I didn't say you could go."

Gilbert grabbed the back of Basch's collar, pulling him into a headlock. Basch heard the familiar click of a pistol's safety catch.

"I need someone," Gilbert said, his words trembling. "You think I'd be so stupid as to let you all go?"

"Gilbert, where are you?!" a voice called out: _Ludwig's_ voice. Gilbert flinched, pulling Basch closer. Was he scared of his own brother?

"You said –" Francis started.

"I lied. Get out of here right now if you want Basch back alive. I can make sure his interrogation goes flawlessly," Gilbert said, looking around for Ludwig. "I need a witness so Ludwig doesn't think I let all of you get away. I promise, I'll return him to Vienna without a scratch on him. But if you don't go, I will kill him here."

"Go," Basch said, looking down at Lilli. Her green eyes were welled up with tears, hand clenched tight around Francis'.

"Basch, we can't trust this man," Francis said. "I'd rather we die together."

"Won't you listen to me for once?! I want you two to live!" Basch snarled, trying to keep himself from crying. He could not look weak, not in the arms of the enemy.

"And I want you to live!" Francis shot back.

"Take Lilli and go. You've got the keys to my house."

"Basch," Lilli whimpered as she took a step towards him, "I want to stay with you."

"I know. You've got to be brave and do this for me," Basch said with a faked smile. "I'll be back soon. I trust the colonel to keep me alive."

"I won't let anyone hurt him," Gilbert assured the girl – Basch couldn't tell if he meant it.

"Gilbert, we have a problem! Where the hell are you?!" Ludwig shouted, sounding closer than before.

Francis finally understood. He ushered Lilli into the Mercedes before getting into the driver's seat. He glanced back at Basch as he started the engine. Basch wondered if it would be the last time he saw his cousin. Would he never see those brilliant blue eyes again or hear that gentle voice talk about divorces? Would that last glance be the end of so many years spent together?

And what about Lilli? She depended on Basch for everything. Would she be alright living with Francis? Would she go back to school? Would she ever forget when she left her big brother in the arms of a madman?

And before Basch knew the answer, the Mercedes was gone.

"Get down on your knees. My gun's empty, I swear," Gilbert ordered, letting Basch go. The man did exactly as he was told, wiping away his tears with the back of his sleeve. If Ludwig saw him crying, it would be over. He had to be the same emotionless figure Ludwig was used to interrogating.

"There you are," Ludwig said, coming around the corner of the house. He was holding a dog on a short leash, the white beast snarling at Basch. "Who is that?"

"Basch Zwingli. It's a long story," Gilbert replied. "So, what were you yelling about?"

"Hochstetter and I may have accidentally closed this case before it officially opened and we have zero evidence to support anything. Hochstetter's inside, looking through everything to try and find something to prove our point. Although," Ludwig said, "what does Basch know about this? And why is he even here?"

"Nothing," Basch snapped. "It doesn't matter to you."

"He's not very cooperative. How did this case close?" Gilbert said, giving Basch a nudge with the barrel of his gun to make him stop talking.

"Von Wolffe sort of pulled a gun on Hochstetter and Hochstetter might've panicked and shot him. In the head."

* * *

" _Why did you come, grey fog, grey fog,"_ the soft voice sang to the rhythm of the train, snapping Eduard out of his thoughts. " _You, who covered the path to my loved one?"_

Eduard didn't speak Polish, but almost immediately he recognized the song. It was one of the songs Toris sang when he was working or trying to get Raivis back to sleep after a nightmare. He'd taught Eduard and Raivis all the quiet melodies to sing when they were cutting wheat in a farmer's field, dying of heat in the middle of July. Most of the songs were gloomy compared to Estonian songs, however, they fit right in with the state of the war. Although, Toris usually changed the names in songs to something else: _sloneczko._ He said it meant sunshine, whoever sunshine was.

"Hey, Feliks, do you know the song about poverty?" Eduard asked. Feliks bolted upright, hay stuck in his blond hair and clinging to his shirt. He looked down from his perch at Eduard like he'd just been told the Gestapo was behind him.

"Oh, my God, you're awake?" Feliks stammered in his awkward German. The two couldn't decide on what language to speak – Feliks violently refused to speak in Russian – so they'd semi-agreed on German. It wasn't the language of choice, but it worked.

"I've been awake for a long time," Eduard said. "I didn't want to interrupt you."

"You at least could've said something," Feliks said, pulling a strand of hay from his hair and flicking it down towards Eduard. "I wouldn't have, like, sang or anything. Look, now you've got me embarrassed."

"It's not like you're bad at singing," Eduard assured him. "You're actually pretty good compared to a lot of people. There's this American guy at my prison camp, and he thinks he can sing, but…"

"It sounds like animal screeching?"

"Exactly," Eduard said. "I heard you talking a few hours ago, too. What was that about?"

"You heard _what?!"_ Feliks hid his face with his hands, falling back on the hay. He muttered a few words in Polish, pausing as if waiting for an answer from Eduard.

"Uh, I don't speak Polish, though," Eduard said after a pause in case Feliks decided to start talking. "I had no idea what you were saying. If you were speaking Polish, I mean."

"Liar. You're a little Russian spy. All spies speak Polish. Even I know that."

"No, I'm not lying. Or a spy."

"Then how do you know the song about poverty?" Feliks growled. "That's a Polish one, unless you Russian creeps stole it like you steal everything else. First half my country, now our songs?"

"I'm not a Russian," Eduard said for what must've been the thousandth time that day. Feliks wasn't quite convinced Estonia was a real country yet; Eduard had a lot of work to do. "And I have a friend who taught me Polish songs. I have no idea what most of them mean."

"Whatever, Eddy. Can I call you Eddy?" Feliks asked, leaning over the hay to look down at Eduard for his approval.

"I guess if –"

"Great!" Feliks said before Eduard could finish, perking right up again. Did anything ever bring him down for longer than a minute? "Hey, are you hungry?"

"Yes," Eduard replied. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ate – somewhere between the hospital and the train station where they threw him into a cattle car.

"Nice to meet you, Hungry. I'm Feliks!" He flashed him a stupid smile, pulling his bag off his shoulder. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself," he said as emptied the bag onto the hay, bright packages going everywhere.

"You said you had a bad sense of humour. I didn't think it was that bad until you said that," Eduard groaned; he'd heard the same type of jokes from Alfred, a notoriously bad comedian.

"You're welcome to leave if you think it's _that_ awful." Feliks gestured towards the open door. "Hope you don't mind jumping off a moving train. And what do you like better? Peppermint, licorice, or um…whatever these things are." Feliks dangled a tube in front of Eduard's face. "You read English?"

"Are you sure that's edible?" Eduard asked, taking the cardboard tube from him. English words were printed on it, words he hadn't picked up from the English-speaking prisoners. "What the hell does M&M mean? Murder and misery?"

"I have no idea. I was, like, too scared to open it when I got it," Feliks said. "They're made in America or maybe Britain. I wasn't going to ask the man I stole them from."

"You stole these?"

" _You stole these?"_ Feliks mocked in a high pitched voice, over exaggerating a Russian accent. "Ja, Russki, some of us have to occasionally steal to survive out here in the wilderness. I don't have Yugoslavian money or Nazi money. Trust me, the people in Belgrade aren't very understanding. I thought they were going to chase me off the continent when the guy realized I'd taken about half his store."

"I thought you were above thievery," Eduard mumbled, warily pushing the lid off of the tube. He spilled a few of the vibrantly coloured things into his hand. Eduard was strangely reminded of a picture book of animals he used to have when he was younger. The brightly coloured frogs and snakes were always poisonous, exactly like the candy. "In case they're laced with arsenic," he said, "You're going to eat one with me."

"We'll die together, like Romeo and Juliet," Feliks said, choosing a purple circle from Eduard's hand.

"Except we're not in love and our families don't hate each other."

"Well, ja, let's forget being in love," Feliks agreed. "That and my family is dead."

"So is mine," Eduard said, examining the supposed candy. A white "m" was stamped on the coating – perhaps representing malice?

"Alright, we're the orphaned Romeo and Juliet. You ready, Juliet?"

Eduard nodded, taking a red candy of his own. He looked up at Feliks, and the boy popped the candy in his mouth. Eduard kept his part of the unintentional suicide pact, putting the little red circle in his mouth. He waited for whatever arsenic poisoning felt like, wondering what the people unloading the train would think when they found two dead bodies?

"…It's chocolate," Feliks said unsurely, glancing back down at Eduard. "I think."

"They're surprisingly good," Eduard said as he ate another red one.

"And probably, like, made of cyanide. Give me some more of those, would you? If I'm going to die, I want to at least enjoy my last few minutes here." Feliks held out his hands and Eduard spilled out more of the M&M's.

Feliks didn't say anything for a while as the train rolled through the bare countryside, only silently begging for more M&M's with outstretched hands. When the tube was empty, Feliks disappeared from sight and went back to humming his songs. Eduard tucked the tube in his pocket next to the stag figure – he'd show it to Alfred and Arthur when he got back and see if the two knew what an M&M was.

His heart started aching for Stalag XVIII-A, of all places. Christmas morning was the one time the commandant would give them uncensored letters and Red Cross packages. Everyone in Barrack Two would stay up far past lights out and tell stories about home. Alfred's stories were always the best – everyone except Arthur wanted to live in America. The American painted images of the great cities in the United States, from New York City to Los Angeles.

Last year, Eduard had told Alfred to shut up and go to bed. Now he wanted to hear about Kansas City barbeque more than ever. And he was stuck on a cargo train with a stranger because neither of them had a _Reispass._ The two outlaws couldn't even get into Austria legally, so they climbed onto a train headed for Vienna and hid underneath boxes and square bales of scratchy hay.

"Is this your first Christmas away from home, Eddy?" Feliks asked, jumping down from his hay bale to sit down by Eduard.

Eduard glanced over at the boy. "How could you tell?"

"You're looking, like, super depressed," Feliks said. "Lighten up a bit! It's Christmas Day and we're not dead from American candy yet and you're with the best human in Europe!"

"Feliks, don't take this personally, but I hardly know you," Eduard said, going back to watching the countryside.

"And I hardly know you," Feliks added.

"Why are we even together, then?"

"Because I'm a good person and I'm going to bring you back to your family." Feliks gave him a little nudge. "That and you have a lot of things to use against me. I couldn't let you go out into the world knowing I was a thief and thinking I was a murderer."

"Oh, right," Eduard said, forcing memories of the morning out of his thoughts.

Feliks realized his mistake, putting on another grin. "Never mind that. You said something about the poverty song, didn't you?"

"Do you know it?"

" _Although poverty is hitting, I won't tell anyone!"_ Feliks partially sang, mostly screamed.

" _I will sing among my people, and cry at home,"_ Eduard finished not quite as loudly, scared someone would hear them.

" _And though the Nazis are coming, I won't run from home!"_

 _"I'll fight for my people, and die for you, my sunshine."_

Feliks made a strangled gasping sound, grabbing Eduard's wrist. "Where did you learn that?" he snapped. "Who taught you that?"

Eduard pulled Feliks' hand off of his arm, backing away from the boy. "The friend I was talking about earlier –"

"What's his name?"

"Toris Laurinai –"

"Oh, my God, you know _Toris?!"_ Feliks took Eduard's dirtied shirt in his hands, pulling him close. "Toris Laurinaitis? Dark brown hair, green eyes, the most adorable stutter in the universe? He likes to make figures and he shakes a lot when he gets scared?"

"You know Toris?" Eduard asked.

"I'm Feliks Łukasiewicz! Hasn't he said anything about me?"

"You're _Feliks?"_

"How many other Polacks named Feliks does Toris talk about?"

"No, I just thought Feliks would a lot older than you are!"

"I'm the same age as Toris," Feliks said. "I'm older than him by a few months, even. I'm the older one." Feliks dropped Eduard, his smile fading into tears.

Eduard couldn't think of anything to say – the scrawny boy before him was the man Toris talked endlessly about? The one he wrote letter after letter to and carved animals and people for? He was the Feliks that Toris told Raivis about, the hero in all of his bedtime stories?

"How is he?" Feliks said, his voice paper thin. Tears trailed down from his eyes – Eduard couldn't decide if they were happy or sad. "Is he alright?"

"I…I think he's…" Eduard went quiet again, pulling his knees up to his chest.

He couldn't tell Feliks the truth. He couldn't tell Feliks about Ivan and the typhus outbreak and the horrors of the Soviet compound. The more Eduard thought about it, the more Eduard wondered if Toris really was alive. He'd been treating Raivis for typhus and taking care of some of the other sick Russians. And one night Toris told Eduard he hadn't ever had typhus and he was terrified he was going to get sick. Who knew what had happened to everyone in the weeks Eduard had been gone.

"You think he's what?" Feliks urged. "What happened?"

Eduard glanced at Feliks, trying to figure out the easiest way to tell the boy. He looked so much younger than Toris, still naïve and untouched by the war. Why did Eduard have to be the one to break his heart?

"Feliks, I think Toris is dead."

The sentence felt so natural and so wrong at the same time.

* * *

"Fraulein?"

"Yes, my Herr?"

Natalya almost-smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She'd grown to like her new nickname. "I was just thinking; what are we going to do when the war's over?"

"I suppose we'll get married," Roderich said. Natalya raised her hand like she was going to slap him, her almost-smile already gone.

"That's not funny," she huffed. "I mean it. What are we going to do when this war ends?"

"It depends on who wins. If the Allies win, we'll go back to our normal lives and forget that this ever happened. But if the Axis wins…" Roderich didn't want to think about what would happen if the Axis won. He'd be stuck as Roderich von Wolffe forever, hiding his heritage and making music for Hitler. And if Operation Edelweiss managed to carry on until the war ended, Roderich would have to keep writing codes in his music and inviting the Gestapo to his home.

Natalya didn't say anything in reply – she was fully aware of what could happen if the Axis won. All of Vienna's Angels knew. They could only hope that the Allies would take over Europe and the Pacific. Their lives depended on the soldiers at the Eastern Front, on the men fighting for every island in the ocean.

Roderich looked down at the sidewalk, hoping to God that the Allies would make a surprise attack in the next few months and everything would be over. Then he could stop going to Berlin and pretending to love a woman who was supposed to murder him. He could go back to writing operas and symphonies. Perhaps he could get Elizabeta back, seeing as her husband would be a POW or in jail.

And maybe he could go back to being Roderich Edelstein.

"We could stage a breakup," Natalya suggested out of the blue. "A huge fight between Hitler's composer and a Parisian model. I'd pay money to watch that."

"Of course you would," Roderich muttered. "You'd pay money to watch any sort of fight."

"I'd put at least ten hundred marks on myself winning. Maybe more," Natalya said.

"The one way you would have a chance win is if I was drunk. And I'm not drinking anymore."

"You're still an alcoholic at heart. You'll go right back to drinking when you're allowed to." Natalya pressed closer to Roderich as a stranger walked by, taking his hand and putting on a grin. Once the man was gone, Natalya's affection went with him.

"Can't you ever be supportive of me?" Roderich asked, looking over at the woman. She shrugged.

"What's the point in building you up if the world's going to tear you down?" she said, leading Roderich to a decrepit looking apartment complex. There were one or two lights on in the windows, and some windows had spider web cracks running over the glass. The bricks were crumbling and the paint on the door was almost gone.

"You live here?" Roderich said, hoping he didn't sound too rude. He'd expected Natalya to live in one of the grand inner city suites, not some cheap tenement.

"Until Francis gets me a full set of papers, I have to live here." Natalya didn't sound too happy about her living situations either. Then again, when was she ever happy?

"You could stay with someone else instead of here," Roderich said. "Mathias can probably get you a better room. Hell, you could even stay with me. We're lovers, after all."

"I'd rather not run the risk of you getting some idea in the middle of the night." Natalya shook her head. "Oh, fraulein, you've got a lot to learn about the world." She turned to go up to her apartment, giving Roderich a wave. " _Guten Abend."_

"Wait," Roderich said, running up the steps to stop her. She started to push him out of the way, but he got back in front of her. "I have something for you."

Natalya arched an eyebrow. "It better not be a wedding ring or I am going to have to kill you."

"No, no, no, it's nothing – well, it is something like that," Roderich said. He pulled a tiny box from his pocket, holding it out. "I don't know if you Russians have Christmas or anything. So, if you don't, that's a thank you for not assassinating me."

"Christmas was outlawed in 1917," Natalya said without any inflection in her words.

"It's a thank you, then."

Natalya took the velvety box from him, slowly opening it. Her face went red, and she shut the box with a prompt snap.

"You said it wasn't a wedding ring," she growled, holding up the ring. It sparkled under the dim lamplight, the gemstone going from purple to blue. "You're either blind or a liar."

"It's not a wedding ring. I can't afford diamonds. The stone's called alexandrite," Roderich assured her. "It's from Russia. And I thought I should do something for you because you didn't kill me this trip and it is Christmas."

"You bastard. You don't have to do things to be nice."

"You said it yourself. I've got too good of a heart," Roderich said with a smile. "Have a happy whatever it is that you Russians celebrate."

"Um, thank you, fraulein," Natalya stammered, slipping the ring onto her gloved finger.

"It's nothing. I'll see you soon, _mein Herr."_

Roderich waited until Natalya went inside before he left on the long walk home. He'd never seen Natalya that flustered about anything – she was always stern and serious. Was there a nice woman beneath her cold shell? He couldn't even imagine describing Natalya as "nice".

Anything was possible in a war, though.

 _What a strange war this is,_ Roderich thought. _First my name, then my job, and lastly, Natalya. Nothing's really the same anymore, is it?_

Roderich walked past Mathias and Lukas' bar, noticing the lights on upstairs. What were those two planning in their living room? He could see it now, Mathias with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other and Lukas wiring new explosives to be sent to the other teams across Europe. Soon Mathias would be radioing a partisan group, telling them the new plans and codes.

He passed the office where Francis' accounting and lying business was. Roderich spent plenty days in the tiny back office, organizing papers out for families going over to Switzerland. Francis, like any true professional, had covered the walls of his private office in pinup girls and pictures of old girlfriends and wives. The office everyone saw was always clean and the private office was less than presentable. Tomorrow, Francis would be hidden in the private office, making new passports.

Then he came to the schoolyard he'd walked by months ago, where he first met Ludwig. He was terrified the Gestapo man was going to arrest him right there, that someone knew who he was. Ludwig was so shy then, a scared boy in uniform. They were afraid of each other. Yet somehow, they'd become rather close in three months. Roderich didn't think he'd ever be inviting the _kriminalinspektor_ to his house to get drunk, and he was.

And then he came to the house that changed his life forever. Basch's rundown home was dark, the curtains drawn closed. Was he home yet? He'd said something to Roderich about being back by Christmas Eve, and there hadn't been a sign of him yet. Roderich figured it wouldn't hurt to check.

He went up to the front door, knocking on it a few times. There wasn't an answer – which wasn't unlike Basch. Roderich waited to see the curtain in the window flutter and for Lilli to come running out. But there was nothing.

"Basch?" he called out. "It's Roderich. Are you home? Please, if you are, don't ignore me. We've been worried about you and Francis here."

He was beginning to get worried when no one answered. It wasn't like Basch to be this late to get home. Basch was always punctual.

"Um, who are you?"

Roderich turned around, startled to find a man in Luftwaffe uniform standing next to a blond boy. The Luftwaffe man came up onto the porch, leaving the boy back in the yard. For a second they stared at each other, trying to figure out what the other was doing there.

"Herr von Wolffe, right?" the one in uniform said unsurely. He came up to Roderich, his blue eyes twinkling. "You sometimes come to Stalag XVIII-A to talk with Alfred."

"Ja. And you are?" Roderich asked; he didn't remember any Luftwaffe soldiers at the stalag. It wasn't even run by the Luftwaffe.

"I'm Eduard von Bock. I'm, well, I was one of Alfred's friends."

So it wasn't a Luftwaffe uniform.

"I remember you," Roderich said. "You were the one fighting with him when I was there last."

"Ja, that was probably me," Eduard said, looking down at the porch as his face grew pink.

"What are you doing out of the stalag?"

Eduard immediately looked up, taking a few steps back from Roderich. "You're not going to bring me back, are you?" he asked. "I can't go back yet. There's the quarantine and the fact that I'm supposed to be dead and –"

"How could you go back?" the other boy asked. Roderich saw that the boy's eyes were red rimmed, his nose a matching red. "Toris is dead."

"Oh, that's Feliks. We're outlaws together. Eduard gestured to the boy. "He was really good friends with Toris," he said, which explained the red eyes.

"What happened to him?" Roderich said, hoping they were talking about a different Toris. He was rather fond of the cute kid who hung around Ivan like a lost puppy.

"Typhus, I think," Eduard answered too quickly to be honest. "The camp's under quarantine at the moment. So I can't go back, and there's nowhere for Feliks and I to go."

"I still think we should sleep in the river. I'd be alright with drowning," Feliks muttered, kicking at the snow.

"Do you need somewhere to stay? I have an extra room and one of you could sleep on the couch. If you don't mind, that is," Roderich offered against most of his better judgement. He didn't know Eduard all that well – really, he knew the man's name and that he wasn't a serial killer. Roderich didn't have a clue as to who Feliks was. That wasn't the best criteria for inviting someone into his home.

"Are you serious?" Eduard asked, a bit unsure of Roderich's sudden kindness. He was a prisoner and Roderich was a Nazi; of course he'd be nervous.

"Absolutely," Roderich said. "I can call the stalag, too, and check on this Toris –"

"No, you better not," Eduard interrupted. "The commandant is really pissed and tired, and he already hates you. It'd be better to wait until the quarantine ends and then call. Come on, Feliks," he said. "Let's go. We've had a long day."

* * *

"Ivan, I don't want to send you to an institution," Gilbert said, his voice muffled by the door. Elizabeta stopped typing, getting up from her desk. It was wrong to eavesdrop, but how could she stay locked out of a conversation like this one?

"There's no need to send me to one." Ivan was as calm as ever. There was something different about his words, though, something that wasn't there before.

"You're legally insane," Gilbert said. "Do you see this list? That man is a doctor, Ivan. If he says you're abusive and have manic depression, you're abusive and you have manic depression. We need to do something about this."

"He only says I am insane because he hates the Russians. He threw in abusive for the hell of it."

"I've witnessed you being abusive to almost everyone. Just today, when Raivis came back, you wouldn't say anything to the boy even though he wouldn't stop talking to you. You hit the kid and told him to shut up!" Gilbert slammed his fist down on the desk. "You go right back to violence and words when you get mad. If that's not abusive, then what is?"

Ivan didn't reply for a long time, long enough for Elizabeta to get very concerned for her husband's safety. Should she check on him?

"I am not insane or abusive," Ivan said after what felt like hours. "It's not my fault Raivis is irritating and Toris doesn't know when to stop talking."

"You haven't acted like this since Toris first got here. You beat the hell out of that poor kid when he came here. That first week, he came to me at least once every day showing off a bruise or telling me about one of your advances. Then you calmed down. So, is this going to be a cycle? Will you be normal Ivan for a while and then go back to being a jackass?"

"I am normal right now."

"Ivan, if you don't straighten up, I will send you to the institution. Are you aware of what they do at asylums?"

Elizabeta backed away from the door. She'd heard the horror stories from people who lived near asylums, stories about ash clouds raining down every Tuesday and people never coming out of the building. Others had said they'd seen patients taken out to a ditch and shot in the back. And some said the people who weren't right in the head were worked to death or used as experiments.

She couldn't begin to think of sweet, lovable Ivan burning alive or being used as another genetic experiment. The timid man working to death was too much for her. Ivan wasn't someone without a mind, another slave to use in the German machine. He had his flaws, but that didn't make him worthless enough to throw away. Surely there was an alternative to the asylums.

"Elizabeta?" Gilbert called from the other room. "Would you come in here?"

Elizabeta held back her fears and smoothed out her dress, pushing open the door. Thankfully, Ivan was sitting in a chair in front of Gilbert's desk, Gilbert looking untouched. Ivan watched Elizabeta like she was some sort of animal, his indigo eyes studying her. What was he thinking?

"What are we going to do about Ivan?" Gilbert asked when she closed the door. "I don't want to turn to an institution. His transfers never go through. He absolutely cannot be with a human until he gets out of this abusive cycle."

"What if we put him in solitary until this blows over?" Elizabeta suggested, looking away from the Russian's hungry eyes. Ivan was never good at hiding anything, so why couldn't she figure out what he found so interesting about her?

"I can't keep anyone in there for more than three months because of the Geneva bullshit Convention," Gilbert grumbled, his disgust for laws growing more evident. "If this goes on for three months and one day, I'm demoted," he said. "We need something a bit more permanent."

"Should we put him in the isolation section?"

Gilbert looked up. "I thought about that. I don't think he'd learn if we kept him away from everyone else while he slept."

"What if we sent him out to the prison regiment?" Elizabeta said. "The one that works in the factories outside of town?"

"There's an idea," Gilbert said, glancing at Ivan. The man was still staring at Elizabeta, his eyebrows furrowed together.

"What?" Elizabeta asked, backing away from the man. She felt like Ivan was going to grab her or break her arm from the way he was looking at her.

"I thought you would defend me," Ivan said. "And you're saying I should go work in a war plant."

Elizabeta couldn't come up with anything to say. Was there a right response? How could she defend an abusive madman? She liked Ivan as much as the next person, however, there was a line he'd crossed when he struck Raivis. And she couldn't forgive him for that. Not yet.

The phone started ringing in the other room and Elizabeta took it as a quick excuse to get out of Gilbert's office. She ducked out into the other room, making sure to close the door. Elizabeta grabbed the phone from her desk, holding it up to her ear.

"Hello?" she said. "This is Colonel Beilschmidt's secretary speaking."

"Hey, Elizabeta. It's me," Roderich said, sounding unthinkably tired. "I'm not drunk or out of my mind or trying to kill myself. I need to talk."

"Roderich, I don't have time for this. I have work to do."

"And so do I. You're not the only one with a job."

"Except I have a real job."

"Ja, you do," Roderich said. "Music isn't work anymore."

Elizabeta paused – Roderich should've fought her for hours on why music was a real job. "Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not. I've been up since yesterday with a crying girl and my awful houseguest is starting another fight. I can't drink and my girlfriend won't answer my phone calls and God, I want to talk to you. Is that so wrong?"

"Can you explain that slowly?" Elizabeta said. "Especially the part about the girlfriend."

"She's not a real girlfriend. It's for this…this thing," Roderich sighed. "Adeline is a nice woman and all, but we're not serious about anything and – Eduard! Put that fork down! I don't care what he said to you, we don't stab people here!" Roderich shouted, another oddly familiar voice shouting back.

"Wait, is that Eduard?" Elizabeta asked. She could've sworn she heard Eduard. He'd been sent out to the death camp a long time ago – he should've been dead already. And what would he be doing in Vienna?

"Yes, that is Eduard von Bock. Don't ask me how he got here," Roderich growled. "He came here with some Polish kid, and the he has been raising hell with Mathias, a bartender from down the street. Not to mention I've been listening to a girl cry about her brother. Has whatever your husband's name is said anything about a Basch Zwingli? He was with Christian Kleiner and Lilli Zwingli. They got back yesterday at around two. They told me Basch got kidnapped or something like that."

"Uh, no, I haven't heard more than he's in Gestapo Headquarters in Graz. Seriously, is Eduard alive?"

"Unfortunately – what, Feliks? Oh, the Polish brat wants to know if Toris is alive."

"Toris? He's –" A loud crash broke the calm of the office, Ivan screaming at the top of his voice and Gilbert threatening to kill him before he Ivan had a chance to get to the asylum.

"It sounds like you're having fun over there," Roderich said; Elizabeta could almost see his smirk. "Well, I won't keep you. Besides, it looks like Feliks is about to strangle Mathias."

"I better go before someone dies," Elizabeta said. It felt so awkward to talk to her ex-husband like he was a normal person, like she was committing some horrible sin.

"Likewise. Oh, and does your husband's phone ring in his office?" Roderich asked. There was another crash from said office, sounding like shattered glass.

"That's it, Ivan! You're going to the war plant!"

"You can't make me!"

"No," Elizabeta replied, ignoring the war factory fight that had sprung up in the other room. "His phone doesn't ring."

"So I can call you without him knowing?"

"If you'd want to."

"Do you care if I call, or is that illegal?" Roderich said far too casually. Didn't they hate each other weeks ago? Elizabeta didn't understand that man when they were married, and she didn't understand him now.

"If you're alright dealing with Gilbert when he finds out, I'll talk to you," Elizabeta replied without even thinking.

"Thank you. I'm not trying to start anything, if that's what you're thinking. I just need to talk to someone who's not in this mess with me. I'll talk to you when there isn't going to be a murder," Roderich said. " _Auf Weidersehen_."

" _Auf Weidersehen."_

Elizabeta thought she wouldn't ever say those words to Roderich Edelstein again.

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **M &M's: these beloved American candies were first sold in 1941. They were first sold in a cardboard tube until 1948, when they switched over to the brown bag we're used to. The inventor, Mars, got the idea from seeing soldiers eating chocolate covered in candy during the Spanish Civil War. He teamed up with a man by the name of Murrie, which is where we get M&M.**

 **Feliks' songs: I found these in a** _ **National Geographic**_ **magazine from the 1970's. I changed the words a bit to fit the situation, but they're still very similar to the original. The songs come from a mountainous people in southern Poland.**

 **Thank you's go out to** europa1857 **,** Lunar Loon **,** EllaAwkward **, and** Comix and Co **! And shout out to my dear** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **for putting up with me!**

 **Hope to see you all next chapter!**


	21. Felice

**May 7, 1944**

 **Vienna, Austria**

"How did it go?" Francis asked when he answered the door.

Roderich put on his fake smile, pretending like he wasn't in tears twenty minutes ago. He'd grown rather good at hiding things, including his true feelings. "I'm thankfully a free man and the Führer doesn't want me dead. All they did was ask a lot of questions and give me their faked reports. I'm due for follow-up questions in June. I can't believe the two of them have dragged this case back up again."

"Oh, Roderich, I'm so sorry," Francis said. "I won't make you stay here if you want to go home."

"No, I'd rather be with you. I don't trust myself home alone. Are the others back yet?"

"Mathias is here in the back with the radio and everyone else is still in questioning. Mathias said it was someone from England, and someone important by the sound of it. Do you want something to eat? You've been in Gestapo Headquarters all day."

"I'm fine," Roderich said as he came inside, closing the door behind him. It was so strange to walk into Basch's house and not see Basch at the table with a makeshift explosive or a broken gun. And it was even worse to see Francis managing everything, the table covered in fake papers mixed in with plans for Operation Edelweiss and his actual accountant work.

"The recruits are here, if you want to talk with them. I sent them out to hang the laundry about an hour ago and I think they're just talking out there. I don't mind if you leave me alone," Francis said, going back to the paperwork on the table. Roderich watched for a moment as Francis switched between three different jobs, working for a second on one paper before moving to the next.

"Do you need help with anything?" Roderich asked, feeling almost obligated to help. Francis couldn't handle everything on his own. "I've never been too good with numbers, but I could probably write up the plans or make passports."

"I can handle it. And besides, I convinced Eduard to be my secretary. He's writing the plans when Mathias or I can't. I don't think the Gestapo can read Estonian, so it works out better that way," Francis said. "Although, none of us can read Estonian. He could be writing about Satan and ducks and I would never know."

Roderich sat down next to the man, distracting himself from the interrogation by looking through the mess on the table. "Hey, Francis," he said, pulling two ration cards from the papers. "Why do you have unused ration cards for meat lying around?"

"I'm planning on making boeuf bourguigon for all of us when this war ends," Francis replied. "Even if the Axis wins. I've been saving a few cards every so often, because I'm hopefully cooking for nine people."

That hopeful ninth person made tears come back to Roderich's eyes.

"And where's Lilli?" Roderich asked, trying to change the subject before he was crying again. He didn't want to show Francis how the interrogation had broken him.

"Writing another letter to Basch," Francis said. "This will be the 100th one. I don't even know where she's getting all the paper to write them, because I'm not giving it to her," he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. "I can hardly believe how big she is now. She'll be seventeen in July."

"Seventeen? God, that doesn't seem right," Roderich said. Where had little fourteen-year-old Lilli gone, the girl who wanted to be a nurse and helped Roderich paint horrible things on offices and shops?

"I know. She's grown up so much in the past three years. I hardly recognize her when she comes home from school. I think she's the lady who lives next door."

"And how's school going for her?"

"Horribly," Francis said. "I get a call from the school every other week saying that she refuses to do her work and won't talk to anyone. I've spent about ten hours in the principal's office getting yelled at. There's talk of suspension and there is a possibility that she won't be allowed to finish her last year of schooling."

"Oh," Roderich said, having no other words to use. Ever since Basch disappeared, Lilli hadn't been herself. However, Roderich didn't think it was bad enough to get her expelled from school. "Did you hear back from Team Weles yet?"

"Number 49 went surprisingly well," Francis said. They'd all thought that Operation Edelweiss' 49th mission would fail miserably, Mathias and Natalya going so far as to put money down on how many arrests there would be. "They got the shipment of weapons and are planning to start the uprising in August when the Soviets get closer to Warsaw. I'm going to Bratislava on Thursday to talk with some of the leaders about plans. I'm bringing the recruits with me to see if they can handle this before we let them try something on their own."

"God, that'll be fun," Roderich said, going back to looking through the papers. "I can't imagine they'll do very well on a train together."

"Um, Roderich, did the Gestapo give you a verdict yet?" Francis asked. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"I was hoping you'd forget about that," Roderich admitted, looking down at the floor. "I've…I've been honorably removed from my propaganda position. Goebbels terminated the contract a few hours ago over the phone and said it was nothing personal and I wasn't going to be blamed for anything. Ludwig told me that if I want to stay out of jail, I should never go back to Salzburg. I'm still considered an Aryan because of my service to the Reich. But as for Operation Edelweiss…"

"I don't care about Operation Edelweiss," Francis said. "I care about you, Roderich. Are you sure you're alright? That's quite a big change for you and you don't seem upset."

Roderich didn't bother to look up; he couldn't have faced Francis without falling apart. "Ludwig was required to show me the autopsy papers. Hochstetter actually apologized to me for everything after he told me what happened. I've never heard a Gestapo man apologize. He's married now, Hochstetter. I saw a ring on his finger."

"That doesn't answer my question –"

"I couldn't hate him, Francis. I couldn't even get mad at him," Roderich said, wiping away a stray tear. "I wanted to and I couldn't. I couldn't hate my father's murderer."

"You don't have to hate anyone," Francis said as he put his hand on Roderich's shoulder. "No one is making you hate him."

"What sort of person doesn't get mad at a murderer? I should've been furious and I didn't feel much of anything."

Roderich had felt so empty in that office, not one thought coming to his mind. He'd been told his father died of an unnamed accident, not from a gunshot to the head. Roderich had gone to the Catholic funeral and cleaned up his father's house and left it there to fall apart. He came home and covered one mirror – he felt more than that would be dangerous if Ludwig showed up unexpectedly. For the rest of the week he sat on his living room floor wrapped up in a blanket, feeling there was nothing more he could do.

When Hochstetter explained what happened, Roderich went blank for the first time in his life.

"Everyone reacts to these things differently," Francis said. "You don't have to be mad."

"I want to be mad because I didn't get to say goodbye to anyone," Roderich said, looking up at Francis. He looked tired and frail and so many things he shouldn't have been. Francis was supposed to be the happiest person in the world next to Mathias. "The last thing I told my father was that I hated him. I probably said the same thing to Basch."

"Oh, Lord," Francis muttered. "Roderich, they both knew that you didn't mean it. Your father said that he loved you and he didn't blame you for anything. Basch told me thousands of times that he wished you would've met him sooner."

"I just want everything to be right again. I want my father to have a proper yeshiva and I want Basch to be here. I want to tell Eduard and Feliks everything about Toris. Hell, I even want to make music for Hitler. I want to keep running Operation Edelweiss. I don't want to be involved in some big investigation and I don't want to have to listen to Hochstetter and Ludwig ask me a thousand questions about if I was aware that my father was Jewish."

"This'll all be over soon," Francis assured him. "The Gestapo will close the case and we'll go back to normal. We'll figure out what to do with Operation Edelweiss. I'm sure Mathias can think of something to do. He's rather good with radios and hiding them. The wires for the one here lead to the capitol building if the Gestapo ever traces it. I can't say that we'll be able to tell Feliks and Eduard about Toris, though," he said, his voice losing its optimism. "They know too much already and it's too big of a risk to send them off to –"

"Francis, Eduard told me to jump off a cliff!" Feliks shouted at the top of his voice, running into the house. He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, his green eyes going from Roderich to Francis.

"It was a joke – what's going on?" Eduard said as he came in behind Feliks, giving Roderich the same look. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's perfectly fine," Francis said.

"Roderich is, like, crying," Feliks said. "I didn't think he could cry. He doesn't even laugh."

"I _am_ a human." Roderich swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. He didn't want anyone to see him cry, and now both Feliks and Eduard saw how fragile he really was. "How are you two doing? I haven't had the time to come and see you between Berlin, Paris, and the Gestapo."

"We're fine. You were in Paris?" Eduard asked, coming over to the table. Feliks rushed forward, taking Eduard's claimed chair. Eduard didn't put up much of a fight – he only punched Feliks' shoulder.

"Do you two ever stop fighting?" Roderich said.

"No. We've shared a bedroom for the past three years and that sort of turned us into brothers," Eduard said. "I don't hate him, though. We fight for the fun of it."

"Shut up, Glasses. I want to hear about Paris," Feliks said, giving Eduard a playful shove.

"I went there with Natalya for a few days, since she is supposed to be a Parisian. We met up with a few Nazi officials and got about six folders of classified information," Roderich explained. "Natalya talked to this Russian she found – I have no clue what they were saying and I don't think I want to."

"Didn't you do anything exciting?" Feliks said. "Paris is the city of romance and all that. Did you two even kiss?"

"No, and quite frankly, I don't want to. And the most exciting thing we did was take pictures of the classified papers."

"Wow, you've hit a new level of disappointing," Feliks mumbled, earning himself a slap from Eduard.

"At least he's not –"

"Francis?" Mathias interrupted, appearing in the hallway. He looked pale, his eyes wide. "I have Allied headquarters on the wireless. I've been talking to General Eisenhower for the past thirty minutes. I just thought you needed to know. Oh, and Roderich, the general would like to talk to you about music."

* * *

Ivan tried to calm his shaking hands as he painted yet another swastika on yet another metal panel. He couldn't have an uneven swastika, not if he wanted to get out of punishment labor before midnight.

His cheek stung from where the manager had slapped him, the rest of his face still red with anger. Being sent to punishment labor was the most degrading thing Ivan could think of – and he somehow found himself there every week. Whether it was for a real outburst or something the manager made up, he knew every week he would be holed up in a closet, painting swastikas.

It was much easier to get into punishment labor than it was to get out of it. First there was the questioning in the manager's office, where the disgusting man had no problem beating Ivan so that he was barely conscious. Then Ivan was locked in an almost claustrophobic room, forced to paint two hundred perfect swastikas in regulation size before he was let out. Armed with a broken ruler and a jar of black paint, he painstakingly marked each panel with the Nazi spider.

Ivan wasn't even sure what the panels were for. Panzers? Artillery guns? Planes? Or was all his work pointless, meant to shame him and waste his time so that he didn't get in enough hours and he had to work on Sunday? Sunday was the one day he could be a normal POW without having a German guard watching his every move. And he'd been promised that next Sunday he could go outside of the isolation block and talk to whoever he pleased.

And, God, did Ivan want to speak to someone other than a German.

"I hate this," Ivan whispered as he painted swastika 27. "I absolutely hate this. I want to go home and sleep, not stay here all night painting for the Nazis. I should get done with this by ten or eleven, which means I'll get back to the stalag by twelve. That's four hours to sleep before I have to come here again."

He finished swastika 27, making sure to measure it before placing it with the rest to dry. Leaving even a millimeter off added a hundred more swastikas to the pile. Once, he had to paint 1,000 swastikas because he painted one backwards. Then he had to stand out in the yard for hours until the manager told him he could come back in.

"I didn't even do anything but ask for the time," Ivan snapped, smearing a cross on a new panel. No one told him asking for the time was a violation of the "rules" that only pertained to him. Even the concentration camp prisoners who worked with them could ask for the time and not be sent to punishment.

"Stop talking and work!" the guard outside shouted, banging his fist on the door. Ivan immediately shut up – he could not go back to the stalag with a bad note.

Ivan had come back with plenty of bad notes before, most of which the commandant tore up and laughed about. Sometimes when he started a fight or had a mood swing or refused to work, the commandant didn't rip those notes up. He put them in a little book and sent Ivan to solitary confinement until he was called out to work again. What was he saving the notes for? More public humiliation?

Instead of talking to himself, Ivan focused on the sounds of the factory. He could hear the ever present hum of machinery, the loud clicks the conveyor belt made. There was the distant murmur of German voices and the sharp shouts of the floor manager. And there was a new sound: footsteps. Very rarely did he hear footsteps in the factory, as no one moved for hours, and these seemed to be getting closer. Was his guard changing shifts?

"Braginsky…Project Auto…experimental," a soft voice said, some parts drowned out by the sounds of the factory. Ivan concentrated every part of him on painting a perfect swastika so he couldn't be yelled at.

The door was pushed open, Ivan's guard glaring down at him. Ivan stopped painting mid-swastika, backing into the corner.

"I'm working, I'm working," Ivan assured the guard, holding up the panel to show him. His hands were shaking once more, and not from anger. "See? I have made 28! I can't work faster than this. Please, sir, don't make me go stand –"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me." A smaller, well-dressed woman stepped out from behind the huge guard. She took a wary step into the room, taking the square from Ivan's hand and putting it down. "You are Ivan Braginsky, yes?"

Ivan nodded. He could almost see the letter that would be sent to Stalag XVIII-A telling Colonel Beilschmidt that one Ivan Braginsky had died in a tragic accident. The woman had to have been sent to take Ivan to a concentration camp or shoot him in the back or perhaps both.

"Come with me, Braginsky," the woman said.

"But ma'am, I'm not done with my work," Ivan said, looking down at the floor. "I have to finish before I can go home."

"You will not be returning to this part of the plant. Your work here can be finished by some other man."

"Ma'am…I…" Ivan searched for the words to use, coming up with nothing. There was no way to fight his executioner. "I understand," he admitted weakly, getting up from his spot in the corner and walking out with the man.

They walked in silence for what seemed like years, Ivan coming up with a thousand different ways to overtake the woman. She was smaller than Ivan was and probably weaker. However, Ivan wasn't in the best of condition, since he usually didn't eat and got only a few hours of sleep. The woman looked like she'd been in the military – she wouldn't be so delicate. And she had a guard following at her side with a finger curled over the trigger of his rifle. Ivan was as good as dead if he so much as got too close to her.

The long corridors and production rooms started to get less and less familiar, until they came to places Ivan had never seen before. The woman stopped at a door covered with papers, some headed with a bold _achtung_ or _warnung_. Ivan felt his heart stop as he put everything together.

He would not be put in front of a firing squad. He would not be hung. He would not be burned alive or thrown into a gas chamber or thrown into a river.

Ivan was going to be a Nazi experiment.

He should've figured it out sooner; the woman had mentioned an experiment when she was outside the punishment room, she told Ivan he would not be returning, and she didn't look like a person who would make panzers. The woman was the perfect image of a German doctor, with her blond hair and blue eyes and wire frame glasses.

It made Ivan sick to think that her face would be the last face he saw.

"You are not needed anymore," the woman said to the guard, waving him off. "I can handle this…man on my own. I will call you if necessary."

The pause before she said "man" confirmed all of Ivan's fears. That little German doctor didn't think of Ivan as another human, but another test subject. Ivan was destined to the same fate Toris faced all those years ago, and there would be no one to save him from it.

The woman ushered Ivan into the room – an office, strangely enough. It didn't look any place where he could dismantle Ivan. There was a big desk and a worktable in the corner covered with paper, and a huge bay window. When the woman looked away, Ivan dared a glance over at the outside. Seldom did he get to see the outside world, and Ivan almost never saw it during the day. It was beautiful that day, the sunset painting the sky so many colors and everything was green and bright and happy.

What a wonderful last sight.

"Sit down," the woman said, gesturing to a chair in front of the worktable. Ivan immediately followed orders, sitting up perfectly straight. The woman pointed to an instruction booklet and a strange looking box. "You have an hour to tear that apart and put it back together. Make a mistake and you will not be returning to Stalag XVIII-A. Start."

Ivan, like any normal man in his situation, panicked. He grabbed the tiny box and pulled it open without a second thought as to what could be inside, gently yet hurriedly pulling out the electrical looking pieces and arranging them on the table. Before long he was faced with an empty box and too many undistinguishable parts.

The instruction book wasn't helpful in the slightest, offering cryptic pictures and a few German words. Instead, Ivan took to shoving the parts back in where he remembered them being, praying that he was doing everything right. He tucked in electrical relays and wires, keeping his face blank so the woman would think that he wasn't terrified.

"I'm done," Ivan said as he put the cover back on the box, pushing it towards the woman. She looked him right in the eye – the Germans never made eye contact with a Russian like him.

"No, you're not," the woman spat. "Do it right. I can have you sent to Dachau or shot for making one mistake."

"I believe I did it right," Ivan said.

"Are you sure you want to spent the rest of your days in a concentration camp?"

"I did it right."

"That was only seventeen minutes. Our man did it in twenty-eight." She snatched up the box, pulling the cover back off and examining the insides. She put the box down on the table and grabbed a chart off her desk, double checking that everything was in its exact place.

"I don't understand," she whispered, looking up at Ivan. "You did this in exactly seventeen minutes. Have you seen a fuse like this before?"

"That's a fuse?" Ivan said. He'd expected it to be a radio part, not the internals of a bomb.

"How could you do this? Are you sure you've never seen a fuse before?"

"No, I haven't," Ivan said. "The military told me I was too dumb to work with explosives. They needed manpower."

The woman sat down in a chair next to Ivan, scribbling notes on her official looking report. "The military was wrong, Colonel Braginsky. You're a genius." She tore off a slip of paper, handing it to Ivan. "When you come to work tomorrow, take that to your manager. He'll have you sent here, where you're going to be working for the next few weeks. I'll drive you back to the stalag."

"Are you serious?" Ivan said. He'd never gone back to the stalag before eight – and if he went then, he would be back by _seven._ The woman nodded.

That day was the best day of Ivan's life.

* * *

"Elizabeta, did your husband tell you how my father died?"

"No," Elizabeta said, twisting the phone cord around her finger. "What kind of hello was that?"

"I don't have a lot of time to talk tonight. But I thought you should know that your husband was part of the group that shot my father," Roderich said with almost no inflection in his words.

Elizabeta couldn't think of a way to respond to that. She'd picked up the phone thinking Roderich would want to talk about trivial things and laugh with her, not make her feel guilty. He always called on Sunday evenings, no matter what. Every Sunday for the past three years, the two had fought out everything that hadn't healed since the divorce, talked about far off cities and the war, and made plans to meet in person again. Elizabeta had even gone through the trouble of getting Gilbert to go into town that night for a few hours so she could talk without risking being caught.

"Oh, my God, that's horrible," she said. "I…I had no idea. I mean, you told me he died and you went to the funeral. I didn't think Gilbert was involved, and I never would've figured that out on my own. Are you alright, Roderich?"

"I'm fine. I've been considering taking up drinking again, that's all. How have you been?"

"Are you seriously going to go back to being an alcoholic? I thought you got over that years ago."

"I did. However, that was when I thought my father died accidentally and Basch Zwingli was coming home and I could send Feliks to see Toris," Roderich shot back. "Now I don't know what to do."

Elizabeta held back a sigh. "Firstly, don't go back to drinking," she said. "Second, I have no idea where Basch is. Gilbert doesn't tell me anything about things like that. Lastly, you could always send Feliks here when Gilbert has a staff meeting."

"Feliks is coming?" Toris asked from Gilbert's office. "When?"

"No, Feliks is not coming," Elizabeta said. "And you better not be in Gilbert's desk."

"Tell that to Raivis and Heracles! Raivis is having Heracles read from papers that he found in your husband's desk," Toris said, appearing in the doorway. "And Heracles is drawing cats on all of them."

"Will you make him stop?!"

"Heracles does what he wants," Toris replied. "And he doesn't understand German yet."

"He was speaking it nearly fluently yesterday," Elizabeta snapped. "Get in there and make him stop."

Toris rolled his eyes and went back into the office, saying something to Heracles that Elizabeta couldn't understand. She prayed that Gilbert would be in an understanding mood when he came back and saw kittens scribbled over his reports.

"Do you even care?" Roderich said, his voice surprisingly rough. "I am keeping a boy here who thinks his friend is dead, and you couldn't care less. And all because we thought Toris was dead for three years until you brought him up again. I can't take that back after what that boy's gone through."

"Says who? Can't you say you've made a mistake?" Elizabeta asked.

"A mistake that I didn't correct for three years?"

"May I remind you that we were married for four years? That was a mistake all on its own."

"I don't think that was such a mistake," Roderich said. "It could've gone a lot better than it did."

"We're both happy now, aren't we?" she said, flinching at a loud crash from the office. Raivis shouted an apology, and Elizabeta prayed nothing was broken.

"Did you miss the part about my father dying?"

"That isn't what I meant. Everything that happened with the divorce was for the best. And Roderich, you can always tell Feliks the truth and I'll tell you when you can send him down here."

"Oh, sure, and then Feliks will try to kill me. I'd rather stay alive. Listen, Elizabeta, I should go. I'll talk to you next Sunday, alright?" Roderich said.

"Ja, that's fine. What are you doing that's so important, or is that information classified?" she said with a smile.

"I can't tell you much. Let's just say that I'm talking to someone on the same level of importance as Hitler," Roderich explained like that was an everyday thing for him. " _Auf Weidersehen_ , Frau Beilschmidt."

" _Auf Weidersehen, liebchen_."

The word slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. It was instinct to add a _liebchen_ to the end of her goodbyes – the one other person she talked to on the phone was Gilbert. There was a long pause that followed in which Elizabeta was sure Roderich was either dying of laughter or too startled to reply.

"…You called me _liebchen_ , didn't you?" Roderich sounded like he was trying his best not to laugh.

"It was force of habit," Elizabeta growled, feeling her face grow red. "I don't actually love you."

"Perhaps it was a Freudian slip. Goodbye, _liebchen_!"

"Roderich, wait –"

He'd already hung up.

Elizabeta slammed the phone down, covering her face with her hands and holding back a scream. That man could go from the nicest person in the world to the most irritating person alive in two seconds. He knew she hadn't meant to say _liebchen_ , but he wasn't going to let her get away with it like a normal man would. At least Gilbert wasn't in the office, because there would have been several questions already.

"Toris," she said, "I better not come in there and find a mess. Do you want time to clean up whatever disaster you've made?"

"It actually isn't that bad," Toris replied.

"Good. Please have everything cleaned up before Gilbert gets back, or I'm going to catch hell for letting you three play in there."

"We're not playing," Raivis huffed. "We're learning."

"Whatever you're doing, just have it cleaned up," Elizabeta said, getting up from her desk. She glanced at the office door before deciding it better not to go in, instead going to the front window. The sun was starting to set in the horizon; soon all prisoners would have to go back to their barracks.

It took Elizabeta a minute to realize that Ivan was walking up to the front porch.

She looked over at the clock – it was seven, much too early for Ivan to be back. And the factory had called earlier, telling Elizabeta that Ivan should be expected to get back later than normal. But there he was, smiling like an idiot with a guard by his side.

"Did you get fired again?" Elizabeta asked when he came into the office. Why else would he be grinning?

"I'm smart, and I have a paper that says I'm smart." Ivan pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, showing it to Elizabeta. "See?"

She took it from his hands, reading through the dainty cursive. _Ivan Braginsky is needed to work on Project Auto and will not be returning to his normal position. He is to be paid twice his normal wages and must be in good physical condition. Signed, Frau Moyer, head of Project Auto._

"Ivan, this just says that you're going to be getting paid a bit more," Elizabeta said as she handed it back to him.

"Except I put together a bomb fuse in seventeen minutes! The German did it in twenty-eight! I'm smarter than a German!" Ivan shoved the paper back in his pocket. "The lady I'm working with says she's never seen anyone like me, whatever that means. She bought me candy in Wolfsburg."

"You're twenty-six, aren't you? Is candy still a bribe for you?" Elizabeta asked.

"I haven't had candy in at least ten years." Ivan pulled the candy from his pocket, showing off the golden butterscotch disks. "I'm saving them for a special day. Well, I already ate one of them, so that's not exactly saving them. But I'll save the rest!"

"Fair enough," Elizabeta said. "I'm glad you've done something right for once, Ivan. Do you think you'll be able to hold this job?"

"Absolutely. As long as candy's involved," Ivan added, flashing her another smile that showed off his missing tooth. Elizabeta hadn't seen that smile in so long.

"Toris, look at this!" Ivan said as Toris stepped out of the office, running up to the man. "I'm going to get twice as much money and the lady in charge said I was a genius."

Toris didn't say anything as he got in front of Raivis, backing away from Ivan out of fear and instinct.

"Right, I..I forgot," Ivan said, his grin fading. He hadn't spoken to Toris since 1941, and their last conversation wasn't pleasant. "Um, I'm sorry. I'll be going now. Good night, everyone. I might see you tomorrow, if I can get home early."

With that, he left the office with the guard.

"I haven't been that close to him in three years," Toris said, his voice trembling. "And God, I never want to be that close to him again."

"He's trying to get better, and I think he's definitely improved," Elizabeta said. "You should at least make an effort to talk to him. Ivan only wants someone to talk to."

"He can find someone else. The last time he 'talked' to me, he told me that when the war ended, he'd shoot me."

* * *

"What's your sister like, 140084?"

Basch put the grip panel back onto a pistol, looking over at his partner. They'd been working together for years, and yet neither had learned each other's name. Basch thought the man's name might have been Dan – he'd heard it during a roll call – but to him, the man was Political Prisoner 140196.

"Why do you ask?" Basch said, running a hand through his blond hair. It was getting quite long, and soon enough he was going to be dragged out to the main plaza and someone would cut it off. "I thought you weren't one for family."

140196 shrugged. "Sometimes I want to think of you as a person. Not Criminal 140084, arrested for Underground activities and Jewish association. You are not just a criminal."

"If I tell you about Lilli, you have to tell me about your family, Political Prisoner 140196, arrested for Communist propaganda. I hardly know anything about you, and you've been sitting beside me for the past two years."

"Deal."

"Will you two shut up before someone hears you?" said the other man who worked with them. Basch hadn't even bothered to learn his number.

"What will they do? Shoot us?" 140196 asked. "Ironic."

"My sister is named Lilli," Basch said. "She should be seventeen, if it is July. She's got the prettiest blonde hair and green eyes like mine. We almost look related, and you wouldn't be able to tell she's adopted. I found her in an alley years ago and took her home. Lilli wants to be a nurse, and she helped patch me up when I got shot. She's the one who gave me the chocolate," he added, patting the pocket where he kept the two bars.

"Cute. My sister is Laura. Reddish hair. Green eyes like mine. Likes waffles," 140196 said. "My brother is Louis. He is little. Seven, maybe? Likes dogs and money."

"I didn't think you had eyes," Basch said. 140196 glared at him through his long bangs, brushing them back to show off the scar over his eyebrow.

"Bad joke," 140196 said. "German humor is the worst."

"Where's your family?" Basch asked before 140196 could get mad. He'd seen 140196 when he was angry, and Basch never wanted to be on the receiving end of it. The last man 140196 got in a fight with didn't come out of it alive.

"Amsterdam. Hopefully," 140196 replied. "Unless Nazis have found them."

"Lilli's still in Vienna, last I checked. My cousin, Francis, is taking care of her for me."

"Will you please stop talking?" the other man begged, looking around for guards. "I don't want to die today."

"Too bad," 140196 said as he picked up a rifle to inspect. Basch went back to work on another pistol, wondering what Lilli was doing. His mind always returned to the girl.

"Do you think we'll ever get out of here?" Basch asked in an attempt at keeping his mind from Lilli. Thinking about the girl made him angry and depressed and worst of all, hopeless. He could not be hopeless, not in a prison regiment where one word could have him shot.

"We will get out. Maybe alive. Maybe dead." 140196 smiled. "I do not care how."

"You must really hate your family."

"I really hate life. If I go back to Amsterdam, there is poverty waiting. If I stay here, I fix German guns all day. If I die, who knows? No matter what, it ends badly for me."

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine," Basch muttered, going back to his pistol. "I'll be sure to tell your sisters how positive you were. You are on the kill list, after all."

"Yes, but I am not important enough to hang. Or waste bullets on. And 140084, what is your name?" 140196 asked. "In case you get put on the kill list. I will go back and tell Lilli."

"My name is Basch Martin Luther Zwingli," Basch said. He found it odd to say his real name – when asked for his name, he was required to answer with Criminal 140084. Saying his given name was like saying he was someone else. Basch Martin Luther Zwingli wasn't alive anymore. Criminal 140084 was.

"I am Daan van Dijk. Two a's. Cannot remember if I had middle name. Pleasure to meet you, Basch Martin Luther Zwingli." Daan stuck out his gun oil covered hand.

"Likewise, Daan van Dijk." Basch shook Daan's hand for only a second before he started laughing, something he wasn't allowed to do under normal circumstances. Even smiling was enough to get his name put on the watch list.

"Why are you laughing?" Daan asked with a rare grin of his own.

"I've known you for two-and-a-half years and I never learned your name. And I hate to break it to you, but that is the stupidest name I've heard in a long time."

Daan almost laughed for a second. "Basch Martin Luther Zwingli isn't good, either," he said, giving Basch a gentle shove.

"And Daan van Dijk is?"

"Better than yours."

"Please," Basch said. "I'm named after Martin Luther. I've got an interesting name with an interesting story and you're another Johann Schmidt. I'm positive there's a thousand Daan van Dijks out there."

"Daan is a very nice name," Daan muttered.

Basch shook his head, resisting another smile. "Let's stick to our numbers, alright?"

"Alright, 140084."

They worked in silence after that, Basch starting to get scared that he'd seriously offended Daan. Daan was the person who kept Basch alive. He could steal almost anything, always had cigarettes, and found loopholes in their gun work. Daan was the sole companion Basch had – if he lost him, it would be catastrophic.

"140084, are you working tonight?" a small voice whispered, the boy who delivered the mail stepping into the tent. "Oh, good! I snuck another letter through the censors for you," he said, coming over to Basch's workplace. He pulled a cream-colored envelope from his bag, handing it over to Basch.

"Thanks, kid. I'll be sure to get you something," Basch said as he took the letter.

" _I'll_ get you something," Daan corrected. "You give."

"Whatever. Have any of my letters gotten through?" Basch asked. The mail boy pulled another letter from his bag, holding it up for Basch to see. Almost every word was stamped out in black ink, a few passages even cut completely from the page. At the top of the page, "reject" was stamped in bold red letters.

"I tried to sneak it into the box and they caught me," the boy said. "If you write a new one, I'll try again."

"I'm running out of paper, but I'll have to find something," Basch said, taking his rejected letter back. The boy said a goodbye and ran off to finish the mail before the night's roll call.

Basch ripped open the envelope, startled to find Francis' handwriting on the page instead of Lilli's. He'd grown used to seeing Lilli's letters full of flower doodles and adorable stories, and Francis' sharp cursive was a rather drastic change. And if Francis was writing, the news could not be good.

"Who wrote?" Daan asked.

"My cousin. Here, I'll read it. _Basch_ ," he started, unfolding the rest of the letter.

" _Today is a very exciting day here in Vienna. Mathias has been using a wireless radio for a while now and got a very important message from a general. The general talked to Roderich for around thirty minutes about plans for his music and a certain date. June 5_ _th_ _. I can't wait until you hear the piece, it'll be phenomenal. Maybe even Roderich's last._

" _In other less important news, I saw a bald eagle the other day and thought of you. We're all missing you greatly here. If you get the chance to come home, please do._

" _From Francis with love."_

"Does any of that mean anything?" Daan asked.

Basch shrugged, folding the letter up and tucking it in his pocket. "I have no damn idea. He made the words 'bald eagle' a little differently than the rest, so I think that's the code word. I don't remember that one, though."

"Hitler? Maybe Goering?" Daan suggested.

"No, he would've said their names. Francis is a brave bastard," Basch said. He recognized that code word, but he couldn't place it. Where had he heard that before?

He remembered looking at a newspaper with Francis and Mathias, laughing about someone. Francis said the man in the picture looked very American. Mathias had asked why, and Francis said that the man looked like a bald eagle. What was that man's name? He had to be the man Francis was talking about. It was Eisen-something-or-the-other.

Then it hit him.

"He's talking about Eisenhower," Basch whispered. "Oh, my God, he's talking about General Eisenhower! They contacted General Eisenhower!"

"Don't yell," Daan snarled. "You will get us in trouble. And your cousin is joking. No one talks to the Allied leader. Not anyone you would know."

"They talked to Eisenhower. That is a good reason to yell," Basch said. "Daan, this is huge. Something big is about to happen. I know it."

"They lied. No one talks to Allied leaders."

"My friends can do amazing things. Talking to Eisenhower would be like talking to a neighbor for them."

Daan rolled his eyes. "I doubt it."

"Just you wait, Daan van Dijk. On June 5th, something big will happen," Basch said. "The war might end."

"How much are you willing to bet on that?" Daan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If I am wrong, I'll give you one whole bar of chocolate. If I'm right, you have to find me a whole box of cigarettes," Basch said. He was so confident that the Allies were planning a huge move for June 5th that he was willing to bet one of his precious chocolate bars that he was saving for the end of the war.

"What if I die before June 5th?"

"Don't be such a pessimist," Basch said. "You'll live. And if I die, I'm leaving everything to you in my will."

"I need written proof." Daan grabbed a report that was supposed to be used for gun parts and a pen, sliding them over to Basch.

"Alright, alright, here's my will. _If I die,"_ Basch said aloud as he wrote on the back of the report _, "Everything I own goes to Daan van Dijk, who has the stupidest name in the world. Basch M.L. Zwingli."_

"I resent that," Daan said, shoving the will into his pocket.

The deal was said and done.

Basch couldn't wait until Daan had to bring him a box of cigarettes.

* * *

 **A/N: No history notes this time! I'll talk about Eisenhower later (oh, boy, you are not ready for proud Kansan rambling).**

 **Sorry this chapter is shorter than the others have been. I am under a ton of pressure and cannot continue to write huge chapters. This will most likely be the regular size for the rest of the story.**

 **Thank you to** exca 314 **,** EllaAwkward **, and** Lunar Loon **! You guys are amazing!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	22. Precipitando

London spoke at exactly ten minutes to three.

The bursts of dots and dashes snapped Roderich awake, bringing him back to the cramped closet under the stairs. He blinked a few times, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Outside the door he could hear the gentle drum of rain on the roof; the start of a barfight from the next room over; Natalya and Lilli's footsteps from upstairs. Everything felt oddly normal, as if it was any other Friday morning.

Mathias was already up, tapping out a reply to Allied Headquarters. He handed Roderich a thin notebook and a pen, giving him a nervous smile. It wasn't his typical "I hate talking to Americans with their dumb English" smile but a "one mistake and we're in front of a firing squad" smile.

"Lukas came in while you were out and said there's a stranger in the bar," Mathias whispered as he spelled out the second stanza to "In Flanders Fields", one of five recognition codes Allied Headquarters required them to use, even in emergencies.

"So? Is it so wrong for a man to come to a bar?" Roderich asked with a yawn, listening to the clicks of the telegraph. He couldn't understand Morse code, however, he liked the way the clicks made little melodies. He imagined the "We are the Dead. Short days ago" line as the opening to a concerto that would never be. If Roderich found the time, he would have written a new piece for it.

"Lukas is worried the man's with the Abwehr," Mathias said, interrupting Roderich's fantasy symphony. "Well, he's as worried as Lukas can get. And if Lukas is worried, we all better be worried. I want you to get ready to drunk stall. There's a bottle of akvavit on the shelf, use that."

It took Roderich a moment to register what Mathias was saying to him – his mind was half-asleep and lost in music. "Give me the bottle," he said when the realization sank in. "I'd rather not be sober when the Abwehr man tells me I'm dead."

"Same here. Say, when this is over with, how about you and me go drink the rest of it out back?" Mathias whisper-suggested, taking the bottle down from the shelf above them and handing it to Roderich. The label was in Danish, a sure sign that whatever was inside of the bottle was much stronger than anything Roderich was used to.

"I can't," Roderich said louder than he meant to. Mathias flinched, shooting a glare at Roderich like he'd told Hitler exactly who they were talking to.

"Sorry," Roderich added, looking away from Mathias out of shame.

"You've been sober for too long." Mathias' voice was somehow softer than a whisper, yet as stern as ever. "And if by chance someone picks up on this signal and we…Oh, never mind that. Come drink with me after we get Lilli and Natalya out of here."

Roderich hung his head – Mathias always made him feel like he didn't have a choice. "Don't sound so desperate. I'll come out there with you. It'll be a nice goodbye."

"Alright, there's my fun Roder–" Mathias stopped midsentence, turning back to the transmitter. "Shit, they're talking. It's just protocol, though. Top secret, not to be repeated, not to be written down." He looked over at the notebook in Roderich's hands. "We'll burn that when we go drink."

"Are they talking in English or German tonight?" Roderich asked, drawing a treble clef at the top of the page. Before he knew it, he put in a time signature and started to fill in the notes for the "we are the Dead" line.

"Danish. I guess it's a bit harder to decode for the Nazis. Don't worry, I'll translate it to German for you." Mathias took the pen from Roderich's hands, forcing him to look up. "Pay attention, alright?" the Dane said. "This isn't something we can screw off with. It's a life and death sort of thing."

"I understand," Roderich said, taking the pen back from Mathias. It wasn't his fault music was in his heart, not secret messages from London.

"You better understand." Mathias tapped in the last code, the opening line to "To Germany"; London seemed rather fond of poems about the Great War. _You are blind like us,_ the dots and dashes said.

 _Your hurt no man designed,_ came the reply.

"Alright, here we go," Mathias said as the clicks came in faster bursts. "Operation Overlord starts June 5th, 0545 hours. Contact by 0540. Signal is not to break unless it is an absolute emergency. If anything goes wrong, we can be executed by both militaries." Mathias went quiet although London was still talking. "Can you imagine that," he said, his voice trembling, "A joint firing squad? Make a note to have Lilli as far away as we can get her."

"Right."

"We must have a man in Normandy on June 5th by 1200 hours. I guess that would be Francis." Mathias tapped out the letters to Francis' name. _Francis Pierre Bonnefoy_ sounded like the opening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony; it was loud and demanded attention, matching Francis' personality.

"At 0545 hours, Francis is going to call us here in Vienna and give us either the go-ahead or tell us to stop. If stop, oh, Lord, what's the German for _straks?"_ Mathias asked, holding his head. "It's…It's like something that has to be done."

" _Dringende?"_ Roderich suggested.

"Ja, ja, urgent. _Danke_. So, if it's no, then we tell London to stop immediately. We cut communications and destroy any records of the conversation. If it is clear, London wants us to go on the radio and have you play music. Anything, they're saying. That way if someone gets ahold of the frequency, they won't be able to tell what's going on."

"Will you ask them to define 'anything'?" Roderich said as he circled the word _dringende_ to make sure he wouldn't forget it. "Because I don't want to start playing and ruin the whole thing because my definition of anything is different than theirs."

"Knowing you, that would happen." Mathias sent another message once Allied Headquarters paused for a moment, and almost instantly they replied. "Those English sure do like to talk," he muttered. "They're saying that they want regular old music. Preferably a piece you've wrote so there isn't much room for mistakes."

"I'll get to work on –" Roderich froze as he heard the familiar groan of the hallway door being opened.

The closet under the stairs went silent. Even Allied Headquarters stopped talking, as if they heard the creak all the way across the English Channel. A rumble of thunder broke the stillness. Roderich heard soft footsteps coming down the hallway, the steps of someone who did not want to be noticed. Mathias picked up the bottle and tore off the cap, pushing it into Roderich's hands.

"Go," Mathias said, his blue eyes flicking towards the door. "I'll get the rest of the details. If something goes wrong, you get Lilli and you get the hell out of here. I don't care if you have to go to Italy, you keep that girl safe."

Roderich couldn't come up with anything to say in reply. He got up wordlessly from his place in the corner, slipping out into the hallway. He closed the door behind him, walking out towards the foot of the stairs.

The possibly Abwehr, possibly Gestapo, most definitely not good man ran straight into Roderich as he came around the corner. Roderich was a good head taller than him – thank God for his height – but he could see the pistol on the man's hip. There was no way Roderich could reach inside his coat fast enough to have even a chance to shoot the man. For an instant, the two looked at each other, not sure what to think of the other.

" _Guten Abend_ ," the man said without any inflection. He wasn't going to pretend to be a regular person, which terrified Roderich more than anything. He was not going to give Roderich the benefit of doubt.

"An' a _guten Abend_ to you too," Roderich slurred, giving the man a shove. "The hell you think you're doin' back here, shorty? This isn't your home to be walkin' through."

"Don't touch me, you drunk. I could have you thrown in prison faster than you could sober up," the man snarled. "Get out of here."

"Excuse me?" Roderich leaned up against the wall, clutching his shaking hand tighter around the bottle.

The man rolled his rather un-Aryan dark eyes. "I said, get out of here."

"I'm not deaf," Roderich said. "But I don't think you'd want to talk t' me that way. Do y' know who I am?" he asked before taking a drink from the bottle. Whatever it was, it burned more than Roderich was expecting. He held back a coughing fit, trying his best to keep a straight face as his eyes watered.

"You're some drunk bastard that is in my way, messing with my business." The man's hand went down to the pistol at his hip. "Would you like to have your obituary in tomorrow's paper?"

"Listen, shorty, have you ever heard of a guy named Roderich von Wolffe?" Roderich asked, putting an arm over the man's shoulder and pulling him close like he was about to tell him a good secret.

"What makes you think you can touch me so freely?" the man said as he pushed Roderich's arm off him and backed away. "And of course I've heard of von Wolffe. That has nothing to do with you, _mischling_."

"Y' callin' me a half-blood, are you? You think I'm a Jew or somethin'?"

"You look like every disgusting Jew I've sent to Auschwitz. I would love to see you on a train to the gas chambers with the rest of them."

That stung Roderich more than it should have. He lunged forward, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him up against the wall. "You called me a Jew," he hissed, jabbing the man's chest with every word. "Tell me, does Roderich von Wolffe look Jewish t' you?"

"I've never seen the man!"

"You're seeing him right now, asshole. And Hitler isn't going to be too damn happy to hear about some short brat calling his musician a Jew and assaulting him."

Roderich abruptly remember that he was no longer Hitler's musician. He started to panic – what if the man already heard how Roderich von Wolffe disappeared from the Nazis' inner circle? Roderich von Wolffe was dead to the Reich, leaving Roderich Edelstein in his place. He no longer carried an elite identity to back him up.

The man rolled his eyes once more. "You're not von Wolffe. You can't be. Last I heard, Roderich von Wolffe was in Berlin. And you, you drunk _untermensch_ , are in a bar in Vienna."

"Are you so stupid you need proof?!" Roderich let go of the man, pulling his _Reispass_ from his pocket and shoving it into the man's chest. The man glanced at it for only a second before handing it back over to Roderich, his whole demeanor changing in an instant.

"I am so sorry, Herr von Wolffe," he said, backing away towards the door that lead out to the bar. "I meant no harm to you. Please, don't say anything to the Führer."

"I'm going t' tell him _everything._ You better get the hell out of Europe if you want to live."

The man was speechless. He stumbled back to the door, never once looking away from Roderich. Roderich smiled, and the man immediately ducked back into the bar. By tomorrow morning he would be on a train to France or Italy, terrified Hitler was out for his head.

"Oh, my God," Roderich said to himself once he was sure the man was gone, slumping back against the wall. He stayed there for a long time, trying to calm his heartbeat. Outside, the thunderstorm raged on, raindrops pounding against the windows. In the other room, he heard Lukas closing the bar. And beneath the stairs, he heard the last tiny clicks from London.

It felt like any other Friday morning.

"Thank you," Mathias said when he stepped out from under the stairs. He closed the door and locked it behind him, coming over to Roderich. "I'm sorry I have nothing better to tell you. I think it's better that you and I just go out back and drink. Maybe I'll tell you in the morning."

"What are you saying?"

Mathias didn't answer, instead going to the backdoor and pulling it open. He stepped out onto the back porch, gesturing for Roderich to join him.

Thunderstorms reminded Roderich of his home back in Salzburg. When dark clouds would roll through the town, Ivan would sit at the window and watch the storm come in while Roderich hid under his blankets or in the closet. Ivan always pulled Roderich from his hiding places, telling him in broken German that everything was going to be fine.

And that night as he stood there next to Mathias watching tears roll down his face, the storm told Roderich everything was fine. Even as Mathias sat Roderich down on the steps and raindrops dotted their clothes, Roderich thought nothing was wrong. When Mathias said that they were about to go on a suicide mission, Roderich somehow believed it was going to be okay.

* * *

"What did they do to you today?"

Ivan held out his arm, pushing back the sleeve of his baby blue stolen RAF sweater – Alfred wouldn't miss it. "Blood tests, Frau Moyer," he said, showing off the bandages circling his arm. "They do not believe I am a real Russian."

"Very good," the woman said, shooing Ivan off. She usually asked for a written note from the physician, but the bloodstained bandages worked. Ivan pulled his sleeve back down to hide them and the other odd scratches and cuts before going over to his workplace and pulling out the box of pieces and the instructions given to him.

"What would you like to listen to, colonel?" Frau Moyer asked.

"If it's alright with you, can I listen to _Anreiz_?"

There was a pause in which Ivan was afraid he was going to get hit for speaking out so willingly. He tried to make himself sound as humble as he could, however, the Nazis took everything that came out of his mouth as offensive.

"I suppose blood tests make up for the lost work," Frau Moyer said at last, going over to the radio.

The radio was the one tool Frau Moyer could use to control Ivan, threatening to turn it off if he stared out the window for too long. She knew as well as Ivan did that neither of them could stand to work in a quiet office. The two of them scarcely ever talked, instead spending their thirteen hours together listening to orchestras and news bulletins. If Ivan did an especially good job that day, she would let him listen to a station from Moscow. _Anreiz_ , Frau Moyer called the Russian station, although that wasn't its name.

" _Today Comrade Stalin ordered for deportation of the Crimean Tartars for their allegiances and collaborations with the Nazis_ ," the radio announcer said, his Russian making Ivan oddly homesick for Moscow. " _After our victorious army freed Sevastopol, the Tartars continued to communicate with Nazi spies."_

"I don't understand what you're getting out of this," Frau Moyer said. "All I understood was Stalin, and he's certainly not a good man."

Ivan knew he was not allowed to reply to that. Frau Moyer was not expecting an answer. And yet, Ivan wanted to tell her so badly that she was wrong, that Stalin was a wonderful man who saved so many people from the Nazis. So what if he was deporting a few rebels? It was for the good of Russia.

Ivan continued his work in silence, following the manual down to the exact detail. He'd tried to change things up on Tuesday and improve whatever it was he was making – that got him yelled at and sent to punishment labour for an hour. Never again would he help the Nazis and their less-than-perfect inventions.

They hadn't been listening for _Anreiz_ for more than thirty minutes when someone knocked on the door. The radio was instantly turned off out of fear – Frau Moyer could be shot for listening to a Russian station. She straightened her tie and threw a warning at Ivan, telling him to be as unnoticeable as possible. Ivan kept working on the latest jumble of wires and relays.

Frau Moyer went out into the hall, closed the door behind her, and started growling German at whoever was out there. She returned moments later looking defeated, her usual strength gone. And there was a man with her, with a clipboard and an air of profession about him. Ivan didn't think much of the man at first – there were lots of them who came in and out of Frau Moyer's office, carrying blueprints and paperwork.

He started to worry when the man sat down next to him and started asking questions.

The questions were nothing difficult – he was shown an inkblot on a paper and asked what he saw. And after that the doctor asked about Ivan's past and if he always had nightmares and why he wore the pink scarf in the middle of May, which Ivan refused to answer. The man took measurements and compared his eye and hair colour on a chart. Then the doctor let him work in the stifling silence, watching as he pieced together wires and circuits.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the radio was on. The noiseless room accompanied with the man's stares and muttered German made Ivan feel less like a human and more like an animal. Perhaps that was what they were doing, bringing Ivan back down to the level of a stray dog. At least with music playing, he would have been a happy dog.

"Remarkable," the man said as Ivan twisted two wires together, tucking the ends into a metal cylinder about the size of his forearm. What was so impressive about that?

"Excuse me, mein Herr, but I really need to get home," Frau Moyer said, her voice losing the tenderness she used when talking to Ivan. "My husband and children are waiting for me, and I have to take the colonel back to the stalag."

"What colonel?" he asked.

"That would be me, sir. I am a colonel in the Red Army," Ivan said, too afraid to look up from his work to meet the man's eyes. He was not supposed to speak directly to anyone unless something was being demanded out of him.

"It says nothing about that on your papers."

"I am a Russian, sir. I do not deserve a rank, not in your army's mind." Ivan hung his head in shame, making sure to look as humble as he could. The Germans hated it when Ivan talked about his country with even the slightest sense of pride.

"Now that we've cleared that up, can I take him home?" Frau Moyer asked once again, considerably more irritated than the last time. "It's already nine."

Ivan glanced up – it was already nine? He came back to the office after the blood tests at four, and he thought it was somewhere around six or seven. Sure enough, the clock on the wall said it was nine o' clock. How did Ivan miss that?

"I am almost done," the man shot back with the same harsh tone, making Ivan go right back to work. Frau Moyer did the same, pretending to work on files Ivan watched her complete the day before.

"Braginsky, how are things at Stalag XVIII-A?" he continued, his pen poised above his clipboard in anticipation.

"Fine," Ivan replied, wiping out the inside of a metal tube with a rag. If the doctor wanted a good story to bring back to his superiors, Ivan was not going to give it to him.

"Do you have any complaints?"

"No."

Ivan heard the man sigh; he must have had a lot of _reichsmarks_ on Ivan's complaints. "You don't have anything to say about the place you've been living for five years?" he said, although it came out as more of a plea.

"I have nothing," Ivan said.

"Your physician's report says you have manic depression and paranoia. Is this true?"

"They've added in paranoia?" Ivan stopped working, locking eyes with the doctor for an instant before looking away. "I hadn't heard that one yet. What gives me paranoia?"

"You have issues with nightmares," the man said, sounding almost excited that Ivan was starting to talk.

"So does everyone else. May I go home yet? I'm very tired, and you wouldn't want my paranoia to kick in. I might scare you."

The man did not respond for a long time, stunned that a Russian like Ivan had the nerve to talk to him like that. Ivan was rather surprised with himself as well – he never dared to speak out. Finally, the doctor rose from his chair, tucking his clipboard covered in notes under his arm. He shot a glare at Ivan, and all Ivan could do in his defense was look down at the floor.

"I expect he will have this done on time," the doctor said without missing a beat.

"I think he could have it done before the set launch date," Frau Moyer said. "He's rather intelligent."

"For a Slav, I suppose he is. And Colonel Braginsky, you better watch who you speak to. Not every German is as tolerant of you disgusting Slavic pigs as I am." He leaned in close to Ivan, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I will make sure your name is on the execution list once you are done with this project," he whispered. "And I personally will attend your hanging."

Frau Moyer didn't say anything for a long time after the man left, and neither did Ivan. He could almost feel the noose around his neck. Surely the doctor was trying to scare him – he wouldn't actually kill Ivan, would he? The thought alone was too much, taking his words away.

"Are you alright, colonel?" Frau Moyer asked as she pulled on her coat. "It's not like you to be so quiet."

"I'm fine," Ivan replied, putting the electrical pieces back in a box. He folded up the manual he'd been given, a thick booklet with _V-1_ and _Project Auto_ printed on the front.

"If you say so. Would you like anything from Graz?"

"No. I want to go home," Ivan said. Frau Moyer didn't talk to him after that; she understood.

That night, like so many nights before it, Ivan fell asleep on the drive back to the stalag. Try as he might to stay awake, sleep always caught up to him. He would close his eyes for a moment and then open them to find Frau Moyer or Gilbert trying to wake him up.

The drive was usually too short for dreams – not that Ivan wanted dreams, his were always horrible. But that night, he dreamt of a noose around his neck, tightening with every breath until he couldn't breathe anymore.

* * *

"How is my dear _kriminaldirektor_ doing today?"

"I like that. _Kriminaldirektor_ Beilschmidt. You're still pissed that I'm the same rank as you, aren't you?"

Hochstetter closed the door behind him, his grin not quite so big as it was before. "You don't have to keep bringing it up," he grumbled, coming over to Ludwig's desk. "I got promoted years ago for getting shot in the chest and you get up to my level for doing absolutely nothing. It's not my fault I'm sore about it."

"It is, though. You wanted to keep the von Wolffe case quiet, and I decided it was the right time. And look," Ludwig said as he held up the report from the new _kriminalinspektor_ , an angry little twenty-something with a huge hatred for Jews. "Roderich von Wolffe is drinking in public again. He's violent. And he's with Mathias Andersen and Lukas Bondevik, our favourite arsonists."

"You're trying to say he's falling apart," Hochstetter said.

"He's definitely not the man he was on Monday."

Hochstetter sat down beside Ludwig, shaking his head in disbelief. "We should've let this case go when we could. It's driving us both insane."

"I thought it was over when we sent Basch to the prisoner regiment," Ludwig said. "I didn't think they would keep going and dragging this out for three more years. And I'm sure they've got one or two more years of hell left for us."

"They're going to keep going until the end of the war, not just a few years," Hochstetter said, twisting the ring on his finger.

"Are you ever going to take that ring off?" Ludwig asked. "I don't feel safe with you wearing it."

"Because I might kill you?" Hochstetter held up his hand, touching the very edge of the ring. The tiny and lethally poisoned spike popped out like a cat's claw.

"No, I worry you might kill yourself. Funerals are getting rather expensive. Please put that away before you hurt yourself and I have to explain to your parents how you died."

Hochstetter groaned, carefully pushing the spike back into its place. "You're no fun, Beilschmidt. And besides, women love a married man because they can't have him. Ever since the boss gave me this ring, I've started at least five affairs."

"You're hopeless and a life ruiner."

"I might be hopeless, but I'm a cute sort of hopeless."

"Cute is stretching it," Ludwig said. "Are you done for the night?"

"What, do you need me to walk you home?" Hochstetter asked with a smirk. "Is Fraulein Beilschmidt scared of walking home alone? Don't worry, my dear, I stopped working two hours ago. I'm not done with most of my files."

Ludwig sighed, grabbing the rest of his work and shoving it into a briefcase. "It's a miracle they haven't sent you back to Berlin or fired you yet," he said, giving Hochstetter a nudge. "I can't wait until you do get sent somewhere else."

"You know you love me," Hochstetter said in a sing-song voice, following Ludwig out of his office. Together they walked out of Gestapo Headquarters, Hochstetter stopping to say goodbye to almost everyone.

The sun was setting by the time Hochstetter finally shut up and they made it outside. Hochstetter seemed much more cheery than usual – he must've had a girl waiting for him at home. Ludwig felt a twinge of guilt for the poor woman, as she had no idea that the man she thought was hers was sleeping with most of Vienna. And he didn't even want to think how many one-night stands Hochstetter left in Berlin.

"Hey, kid, what are you going to do after the war?" Hochstetter asked, stepping over a puddle left from the previous night's storm.

"Work for the Gestapo, because I don't see myself losing this job. You should probably plan for the future, though," Ludwig replied. "I can't think of a job out there right for you. Maybe work in a Soviet gulag?"

"Let's play devil's advocate for a minute here and say Germany doesn't win the war. I'm not saying that'll happen, though," Hochstetter added, ignoring Ludwig's comment about the gulags. "What would you do if there was no such thing as the Gestapo?"

"I would work for another military office."

"God, you're killing me," Hochstetter said, dragging his hands down his face. "There is no military. _None_. What are you going to do to make money?"

"I guess I would go work with my brother," Ludwig said.

"And what would your brother be doing?"

"Auto-mechanic things? He likes fixing cars and motorcycles," Ludwig answered. "Or maybe he would join an orchestra. He plays the flute surprisingly well."

"I can see that. Now, don't you want to ask me what I want to do?" Hochstetter said, coming back to Ludwig's side like a dog begging for table scraps.

Ludwig smiled. "No, I don't."

"Thank you for asking, Ludwig. You see, I think if this war goes bad for us Germans, I want to be an actor," Hochstetter carried on. "When I was a kid, I went to go see _Meine Schwester und ich_ when it opened in Berlin because my father was sort of a conman and could get anything if we wanted it; that's another story. Anyway, I've always wanted to be an actor since then. I thought I could make it to Hollywood or Broadway, except they already have Marlene Dietrich and they don't want another German, not after this war."

"I could see you as an actor," Ludwig said, feeling something akin to sympathy for Hochstetter. He quickly crushed that feeling. "It's a lot of cheap work, though. I've heard you don't get paid that much and there's lots of fights."

"So? I get in fights already. And money doesn't make the world go 'round like they say it does. Besides, I'll never have a wife to tie me down."

"You're never getting married?" Ludwig asked. It didn't seem right for Hochstetter to be such a hopeless romantic and then say he would never marry.

"Hell no," Hochstetter said, kicking at a loose bit of concrete. "I get bored with the same girl. You have to change things up. And sure, Hitler wants all pretty German boys like me to make pretty German kids. Well, mein Führer, that's not how it's going to work." He turned to face Ludwig. "You can make the Aryan kids while I go perform."

"That's not happening."

"Ja, you're right. You're scared of women," Hochstetter said. "Tell you what, you should come be an actor with me."

"I am not scared of women. And I'm not meant to be an actor," Ludwig shot back, feeling his face go red.

"Don't lie to yourself, kid. You're going to be a star." Hochstetter put an arm around Ludwig's shoulder. "Can't you see it now?" he asked with a stupid grin. "Me and you –"

"It's 'you and I,'" Ludwig corrected.

"Shut up. Can't you see Hochstetter and Beilschmidt: The best thing to come out of Germany since beer," Hochstetter said. "We could be stars together."

"I think I'll stick with the Gestapo," Ludwig said, taking Hochstetter's arm off of him. "You go be the best thing to come out of Germany since beer."

Hochstetter started to say something before being cut off by piano music. Ludwig then realized that they were standing in front of Roderich's house, the windows in his study wide open. He didn't seem to be playing music, though. It was one note over and over, sometimes held for a few seconds or only an instant.

"Do you think von Wolffe knows he just said "we are the dead" in Morse code?" Hochstetter asked quietly, as if Roderich would be able to hear him.

"You know Morse code?"

"Sure," Hochstetter said. "See, he's playing chords and stuff and there's a message mixed in there." He leaned up against Roderich's porch, closing his eyes and listening intently to the music. "Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved and now we lie in…Austria's fields?" Hochstetter opened his eyes. "It's supposed to be 'In Flanders Fields,' isn't it?"

"It is," Ludwig said, wishing he'd taken the time to learn Morse code. How many secret messages had he missed in Roderich's music? He'd heard nearly every piece at least once; that added up to around forty or fifty messages.

"Must be some new artist thing," Hochstetter said, shrugging it off. "Those creative people are always doing things like that, thinking they're 'revolutionary.'"

* * *

"140084, you're out of uniform," Basch's superior officer said, pointing to him almost accusingly with a branch he must've torn from a tree. "And you too, 140196."

"Boris, it's bloody hot. I'm not going to wear a uniform and Daan doesn't wear his uniform to begin with," Basch said, putting his head down on his desk. Who knew May could get so hot in Czechoslovakia?

"This is nothing," Boris said with a mocking laugh. "You've never been hot until you've lived through a summer in Sofia. I thought I'd gone to hell. I was waiting for Satan to show up and tell me I'd died in my sleep."

"Baby," Daan muttered, pulling at his collar.

"Oh, you have no idea what it's like to suffer." Boris leaned back in his chair, propping his dirty boots up on the table. Basch resisted the urge to push the Bulgarian over – it was better to stay on Boris' good side. One word from him could have Basch sent to a real concentration camp.

"Were you tortured in Gestapo Headquarters for five weeks?" Daan asked. "Did not think so," he said without waiting for Boris' answer.

"I've been in Headquarters more times than I can count. And I've got a helluva lot of marks to prove it," Basch said, pulling up his shirt to show off the scars on his back. Boris let out a low whistle, his grin unfading.

"Impressive," Boris said. "Except you're forgetting I was in Banjica before they sent me here. They used to put at least a hundred Jews and Slavs like me against a wall and shoot 'em down one by one."

"How scary," Basch said as he picked out the guts of a Luger.

"It was. Do you have any idea what it was like to wonder if you would get picked for execution?"

"No, and I don't care."

Boris leaned over and poked Basch's chest with the stick. "Listen, 140084, I saw my best friend get shot against that wall. He found out the list for selection and took my place. Vladimir died so I could have a chance to get out of there."

"He sounds like a vampire," Daan said. "Wasn't Vladimir a vampire name?"

"I think so. Like, Vlad the Impaler? Was your Vladimir related to that guy?" Basch asked, sorting out the parts of the Luger and trying to find the broken one.

"You think you're so funny, don't you?" Boris sat upright again, putting the stick under Basch's chin and pushing his chin up. "If you weren't so good at your job, I would put you on that kill list."

"You put me on the kill list and I am alive." Daan pretended to check his pulse. "My heart is still beating."

"They won't kill you because you're smart," Boris said. "And not to mention good-looking."

"Are you hitting on me?"

Boris shrugged. "I was arrested for being a homosexual or something like that. Funny thing is, I had a girlfriend at the time. I should have been arrested for sabotage, too. I guess they overlooked me burning down a Nazi building. Anyhow, I'd told this guy a week before that if I wasn't a man, I'd kiss him. You got to appreciate beauty, right? I guess he went to the Gestapo and told them I tried to sleep with him. Just my luck."

"How cute," Basch grumbled; he didn't need Boris' stories when it was deathly hot in their tent-turned-gun-repair-shop.

"It is a cute story," Boris said, failing to pick up on the sarcasm.

"Hey, 140084!" the small mail-boy shouted, running into the tent. He too was out of "uniform", if eleven-year-olds wore a uniform. The kid was the commander's son, though, he could wear shorts if he wanted to and no one would yell at him. "I have a letter for you!"

"Thanks for announcing that to everyone," Daan muttered.

"Did mine make it through the censors?" Basch asked as the boy handed over the envelope. The boy shook his head.

"Sorry. They really don't like you," the boy said. "I stole that one for you," he added, gesturing to the letter in Basch's hands.

"Here. For your troubles." Daan reached into his pocket, pulling out two candies. The boy's face lit up and he took them from Daan's hands, gasping a thank-you before unwrapping one of the candies and putting it in his mouth.

"You had those all this time and you didn't share with your favourite Bulgarian?" Boris asked, sounding quite offended.

"I hate you. You are definitely not my favourite."

"Oh, Boris?" the boy said. "They want you at the main office. Dad says you're in trouble for kissing another prisoner."

"Tell your father that man grabbed me and kissed me before I could do anything. He's been doing that for weeks, pretending to fall in love with some of the homosexuals we have here and then running to the commandant and bitching about how he's being assaulted by a bunch of…" Boris stopped short, remembering how old the boy was and who his father was.

"They still want you at the office."

"Because some asshole tried to get on the commander's good side by kissing me? Where is the democracy here?" Boris got up from his chair, leaving the tree branch leaning against it. "Don't kill each other while I'm gone, alright?" he said, looking right at Basch.

"I'll try not to," Basch replied.

"I'll shoot him," Daan said not as jokingly as Basch would have liked.

Once Boris was gone, Basch ripped open the latest letter. Every time he got a letter it was better than the one before it, its author talking about the wonderful siege that was going to happen in June. Basch was ashamed to say that the letters got his hopes up – maybe there was a chance for the lonely prisoners in rural Czechoslovakia.

"Who is it?" Daan asked, leaning over to read over Basch's shoulder. "Who is Roderich?"

"This Jew I know from Vienna," Basch said, wondering why Roderich wrote him. For the past three years, Roderich had never once reached out to him. Why now?

" _Read while I sit here and do nothing_ ," Daan ordered, mocking Boris' accent. " _Tell me about this Jew. I bet he's cute."_

"No, Roderich isn't a cute man. Very Jewish looking, though. _Dear Basch_ ," Basch started to read aloud. Then he took one look at the first paragraph and couldn't continue.

"…Is that it?" Daan asked, a touch of worry in his words. "Just 'dear Basch'?"

"It's a private letter," Basch said too hurriedly, shoving the letter in his pocket. He had read two sentences in the letter; it scared him more than anything ever said to him.

 _I saw Mathias cry for the first time,_ Roderich had written in his shaky handwriting that got worse the later it was. _I feel as if the world is coming to an end._

"Are you ashamed of your Jewish friend?" Daan asked, going back to work. "Is that it?"

"No, not at all."

"Then why do you hide his letter?"

"It's…It's private, alright?" Basch snapped. "I don't always have to know what your letters say."

"I have only gotten one letter. From Laura. She told me our parents were shot in the street," Daan said, his voice cracking ever so slightly. "They were not allowed a funeral."

The two did not talk after that.

Daan did not return to the barracks that night, leaving Basch with the time to read through the letter. He pulled it from his pocket once he was sure no one was watching him, getting as close to the window as he could so he could read.

" _Dear Basch,"_ it started, like so many letters before it.

 _"We have received some rather unfortunate news here. I saw Mathias cry for the first time. I feel as if the world is coming to an end. And yet, I can't do anything except write to you. I'm sorry I've never wrote before – I was too afraid to. Now that I'm no longer working for Hitler, I feel like it's safe to write you._

 _"Everything is so lonely here without you, Basch. I can't go to your house without wanting to cry. Francis lives there now, so Lilli didn't have to move to the inner city. That doesn't make it any easier, though. I can tell that Mathias and Natalya hate going to your house, too. It's hard to read Lukas._

 _"I fear that when you come back to Vienna, none of us will be here. You see, Basch, I may die very soon, along with Lukas, Mathias, Natalya, Francis, Eduard, Feliks, and God forbid, Lilli. I fear none of us will be here if you ever make it home. Our lives are in the most danger they've ever been in. Those cyanide capsules you gave us so many years ago…Oh, there's no easy way to put it._

 _"I'm going to kill myself on June 5_ _th_ _._

 _"Regretfully yours,_

 _"Roderich von Wolffe."_

* * *

 **History notes/translations:**

 **In Flanders Fields – this is a famous poem written by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae of the Canadian Army. He wrote the poem after going to the funeral of a friend that died at the Second Battle of Ypres. This poem is where the remembrance poppy comes from. If any of you ever get the chance to go to the WWI Museum in Kansas City, when you walk in there is a glass bridge over a field of poppies inspired by the poem.**

 **To Germany – this a poem written by Charles Hamilton Sorley, also about WWI. Sorley was in Germany when the war broke out in 1914, and as an Englishman, was interrogated by the German police before being released. He then joined the army, where he died at the age of 20 in the Battle of Loos. His poems were published posthumously. "To Germany" is a poem is about not blaming Germany for the war – rather ironic for a WWII setting.**

 **Abwehr – the Abwehr was Nazi Germany's military intelligence organization, and a big rival of the Gestapo. The Abwehr were technically responsible for sabotage and espionage, but because of the Gestapo's organization, they made many more arrests and caught things that the Abwehr skimmed over. The Abwehr was a failure and full of anti-Nazi supporters trying to bring the system down from the inside.**

 _ **Anreiz**_ **– Anreiz means incentive in English.**

 **Crimean Deportations – the Russians and Crimeans have anything but a good history. When the Soviet Union liberated Sevastopol, several notes were sent to the NKVD accusing the Crimeans of having Turkish and Nazi alliances and called most Crimeans that served in the war "deserters." A total of 238,500 people were deported to camps where they were met with starvation and disease.**

 _ **Mein Schwester und ich**_ **– "My Sister and I", a musical that debuted in Berlin in March of 1930. It was later turned into a movie in 1954.**

 **Thank you to** Bob and co **,** mia kiruna **,** MadameStarheart **,** Questcat423 **,** Violet Thropp **,** EllaAwkward **, and** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **for being my support system!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	23. Dolente

"You can't hide from the inevitable."

Francis waited for a few minutes before heaving a frustrated sigh and falling back against the wall. He loved Roderich to death, however, that man could get so childish and downright irritating. When Francis needed to talk to him more than ever, Roderich locked himself away in his house. No one had seen him for weeks. Some part of Francis was willing to bet he left the country.

"Please, Roderich," Francis said once more, "We need to talk about this, and hiding from me won't do you any good. If you keep hiding from us like this, it's going to be June 5th before you know it and…Is that really what you want, Roderich von Wolffe? Do you want to spend your last days here alone?"

He was met with nothing save for the stillness of a Viennese morning.

"Then I guess I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want." Francis turned to go back to his Mercedes. "It was nice knowing you, von Wolffe. Personally, I liked Edelstein a lot better than you. Edelstein would have answered the door. But he's long gone, isn't he?"

And with that, Francis marched off towards his car, anger and fear mixing together to make some horrid emotion that took over his thoughts. There were better things to do than waste his time waiting for Roderich to open up. On the other hand, what if he never saw Roderich again? The last time he talked to him was before he left for Bratislava, and Francis couldn't remember what it was about.

Nevertheless, Francis was running out of time. There were arrangements to be made, the last few papers to be updated to hopefully outlast the war, and he promised to help Lilli with a few things that needed to be done to the house before it was abandoned. Roderich was of the very least concern.

"Wait," a thin, very un-Roderich voice called. "Francis, I'm sorry. Don't go."

Francis stopped.

"I mean, it's just that…It's just that I can't…I don't...Oh, Lord, why don't you come inside already? I need you here with me."

"When have you not needed me?" Francis said with a smile, turning back to face Roderich. His happiness was short-lived; after he saw the way Roderich clung to the doorframe to hold himself up and the bandages around his hands and wrists, Francis knew it was not going to be an easy conversation.

"I'm not up for conversation, if that's what you came here for," Roderich said once Francis was inside, trying to organize his wreck of a kitchen into less of an eyesore. He grabbed a bunch of papers from the table, shoving them into a drawer that seemed to hold about everything. "I don't want to talk about what's going to happen to us. Let me think that everything is normal for the time being."

Roderich glanced over at Francis, his indigo eyes full of a fear few knew. "It's nothing serious, is it?" he asked. "You don't seem to be yourself today."

" _I_ don't seem to be myself?" Francis said. "Roderich, you're the one who's been locked away for three weeks. You haven't come over, you haven't returned any of our calls, and even Ludwig said he hadn't seen you in a while. What's going on?"

"I'm working on my last piece," Roderich said, holding up sheet music that was scratched out and written over. "And I want this to be perfect. I'm fine."

"No, that's not what I mean."

"Well, then, what do you mean? You have to dumb things down for a Jew like me," Roderich said, clearing a space at the table for Francis. "I've been told Jews aren't particularly bright, and I have a hard time arguing with that."

"What are you – is that what this is about?" Francis asked. Roderich went silent, pulling his sheet music up to his chest like a shield.

"Let's start somewhere easier," Francis said, realizing Roderich wasn't going to answer him. Roderich nodded in agreement, stuffing the scores into a folder lying on the cabinet. Studying the musician, Francis picked what he thought was a good starting point. "Can you tell me why you've got the bandages on your hands?"

"I dropped a glass yesterday and cut up my hands. Honestly."

"It's not because you were –"

"You know me better than I know me," Roderich interrupted, his words thick with unfitting anger. "I don't want a painful death. Slitting my wrists seems like a rather harsh and incredibly messy way to go. And if I was trying to kill myself, why on earth would I be here talking to you?"

"It was a simple yes or no question, _mon cher_."

"I'm going to die in four days and you're concerned about me killing myself." Roderich took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hands. "Oh, God, that is so _you_ , Francis."

" _Merci_. Now, will you tell me what's got you so upset?" Francis asked. "Perhaps we can work this out."

"No. There is nothing more to work out," Roderich said sharply. "Tell me," he added in a softer voice, "How is everyone else? Have you told them about the 5th yet?"

The 5th. It was a simple date, no different than the 6th or the 7th. But even the thought of it hurt the both of them. "Lilli thinks she's coming to Normandy with me for work," Francis said. "I can't bear to tell the recruits, not when they've got their hopes up for a mission of their own. Lukas and Natalya are making plans to blow up half of Vienna. Mathias is rather calm about it." Francis looked back up at Roderich. "I guess we're the only two that are worried."

"I wouldn't call myself worried. Death is such a strange idea to me that I don't feel much of anything. Sure, my life's been in danger for years, but now it's _in danger._ Mathias said this was going to be a suicide mission. And frankly, I don't have any idea what's worse: killing myself or letting someone else take care of it for me."

"Don't say things like that," Francis said.

"You want me to act like nothing's wrong?" Roderich asked. "Are you saying I should deny that I'm going to be dead in a matter of days?"

"I don't want to think about you…about all of us in that way."

"You said it yourself, Francis. You cannot hide from the inevitable. And what's avoiding it going to do? It won't save us."

"Don't you realize how hard this is for me?" Francis said. "For the first time since I came here, I can't save anyone. I've tried to come up with plans to get you out of this, to at least give someone the chance to live. There's nothing I can do. It's up to fate to tell us who will survive."

Roderich blinked a few times. Did he understand?

"You, Francis Bonnefoy, have given up?" he asked. "You've just given up on us?"

"There's nothing I can do!"

"There's always something. Even if it ends with us dying, so be it. At least you've tried!"

"I don't want failure, Roderich," Francis said, clenching his hands into fists. "I want someone to walk out of this alive!"

"If you wanted someone to live so badly, you would have never given up," Roderich said. "You have to try."

"What is there to try?"

"Send Lilli to Switzerland. Alone. She's old enough to go by herself."

Francis shook his head. "I told Basch I would keep her safe. That's too big of a –"

"Too big of a risk?" Roderich interrupted, flashing Francis a mocking grin. "So moving to Vienna and making a business out of lying wasn't a risk? Getting mixed in with the Gestapo wasn't a risk? Finding me wasn't a risk? The sabotage business we've been running for three years wasn't a risk? What is a risk to you?"

"You don't understand. I promised Basch. If he ever found out that I sent Lilli to Switzerland on her own, he would kill me."

"Francis, he would think you did the right thing. I'm sure he would much rather have Lilli safe than the two of you dead."

"I can't go back on a promise like that," Francis said, hating himself for sounding like a broken record. What else was there to say?

"You can't break a dead man's promise? Those are the easiest."

"Don't say that."

"Don't say what?" Roderich came up to Francis, his smile gone. "That Basch is dead? You don't believe that he's alive after years in wherever he is, if he wasn't shot first?"

"Basch is smart. He could get himself out of anything," Francis stammered. "You're wrong."

"Basch may be smart, but intelligence means nothing to a bullet."

Francis took a step back, too stunned to do anything more. "Shut up. Just shut up."

"Then you do something about Lilli! I won't stay here and watch you kill that girl because you're loyal to a dead man. You don't see me keeping my father's promises, do you? Please, for the love of God, Francis, do not kill Lilli. I don't care if you can't save anyone else. Do not give up on her. She deserves more than any of us."

"We all deserve the chance to live," Francis said, his voice shaking. "It's not just Lilli."

"That girl hasn't seen a world without a war. All she knows here is hate and bloodshed. I want her to have the same memories you and I do, of a country without Hitler," Roderich said. "I want her to have a life that is not centered around the Nazis or sabotage or anything of that sort. And if you're not going to give her that life, then I'll do it myself."

Francis tried to find the words to fight with; he drew a blank. How could he argue with Roderich, the man who once sat in the same room as Adolf Hitler and set fire to the Reichstag? Roderich was a wall that couldn't be broken. He saw too much in his lifetime to let a few words shake him.

"Well?" Roderich folded his arms over his chest. "Are you going to do it yourself or leave it up to a stupid Jew?"

"I'll…I'll get her to Switzerland," Francis said, feeling the weight of Basch's promise be lifted from his shoulders. If Basch wasn't dead, he would strangle Francis when he found out. "I have a man or two who can meet her there and take care of her for me."

It caught Francis by total surprise when Roderich pulled him into a hug.

"Lord, I am so sorry for everything I said," he whispered, holding tight to Francis like he might disappear. "I didn't want to bring Basch into this, I promise."

"Don't apologize. You probably saved Lilli's life."

"You aren't mad at me, are you?" Roderich asked, letting Francis go. "I completely understand if you don't want to talk to me after this."

"No, no, you're fine. I'm glad I came over here to talk with you," Francis said. "I could have killed Lilli, being so stubborn like that."

"You had a good reason to be stubborn. If it was me, I wouldn't want to break a promise to Basch."

"I should have broken it a long time ago, though," Francis admitted. "Then we wouldn't have to do this."

"It's good you can keep a promise, Francis. You're not like me. I've broken at least five promises in the past week," Roderich said with a smile. "You're already doing better than I am."

"If you don't mind me asking, what were you doing here that was so terrible?"

Roderich took a deep breath, as if mentally preparing himself for whatever he was going to say. "Can you keep a secret? And I mean it this time. You cannot tell anyone or I'm going to be dead before the 5th."

"I wouldn't dare to tell anyone," Francis replied.

"I've been drinking since Christmas of 1941 and hiding it from everyone. I'm hungover right now and my hands are bandaged because I broke a bottle upstairs when I heard you knock and cut my hands open," Roderich said, holding up his hands shamefully.

"I think I'm in love with Elizabeta, or at least her voice," he continued. "We've been talking every Sunday since '42. I started calling her _liebchen_ as a joke and it's turned into less of a joke and more of a truth. I'm scared of dying and yet I've thought of taking my life at least a hundred times. And I want to be Roderich Edelstein again instead of the bastard I am now. That's why I've been hiding." He looked over at Francis. "I'm sick of being not-Jewish, if that's a word. If I'm going to die in four days, I'm going to die as myself."

Francis wished he wouldn't have asked.

"I suppose you're mad," Roderich said. "Go ahead, yell at me. Give me my last lecture."

"I don't want to yell," Francis said, still a little startled by everything that happened that morning. "Can we talk how we used to talk? Before the war and everything. I liked it when you would take me to a café and we would talk about air raid sirens and politics and people and whatever else was on our minds. And I never realized what you were saying, and you would explain it over and over. I want you to explain that to me like you used to do."

* * *

 _Vergeltungswaffe._

The can of paint slipped from Ivan's hand, hitting the floor with a crash. White paint splashed up onto the steel plate, speckling the dark grey with flecks of ivory. Ivan didn't notice; he couldn't tear his eyes from the sixteen letters.

"What is it, Braginsky?" Frau Moyer said, putting her book down on her lap. She didn't bother to get up from her place by the open doors, choosing to glare at him from across the room. Lately, she'd taken to ignoring Ivan more than usual, never speaking to him unless he did something wrong. "Christ, what have you done now? We don't have time for this. That is supposed to be shipped out in two days."

Ivan kept staring at the word he painted on the panel, watching a teardrop of white run down from the s. "Vengeance weapon," he whispered in Russian. No, that could not have been right. Something was lost in translation.

"I can't understand you. Speak in German or don't speak."

"It was nothing of importance," Ivan said quickly, snatching a rag up from the table beside him. "I was only cursing myself for being so clumsy." With a shaking hand he wiped away the paint splashes, returning the steel to its polished glory. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"Can't you go a day without causing some sort of disturbance?" Frau Moyer muttered under her breath as she went back to her book. Ivan swallowed a reply; it was always better to keep quiet than to be heard.

"Can I go back to your office to get more paint?" Ivan asked, stumbling over the German words he was so confident with. "I'll clean up the rest of this when I come back."

"If you must. Can I trust you to go without a guard?"

"Yes, Frau Moyer."

"Then go. You have five minutes before I send a man after you."

Ivan muttered a thank you – or maybe it was an excuse me, he wasn't paying attention – and left the hangar almost running.

" _Vergeltungswaffe_ ," Ivan said to himself as he walked down the twisting hallways back to the office. He knew _vergeltung_ : vengeance. Germans loved to use the word; vengeance for the Great War, vengeance for the Russians, vengeance for the Jews. And _waffe_ was easy. Germans were just as fond of weapons as they were vengeance.

But surely Ivan made an awful mistake. Although he spoke fluent German and knew both words, mistakes were always possible. The one way to be sure was to find the classified papers.

He came to Frau Moyer's office, making a quick check for the guards that seemed to appear whenever Ivan was in the vicinity. It was like they could sense when Ivan was about to do something questionable and immediately found him. Seeing as the hallway was empty, pushed open the office door and slipped inside.

"Who are you?"

Ivan turned to face the voice, his fists held up out of instinct. A short technician stared back at Ivan, his hands trembling as he pressed a folder to his chest. He seemed more scared of Ivan than Ivan was of him – after all, Ivan was twice his size. However, he was a German and Germans had the authority.

"I'm sorry, sir. I did not know you were in here." Ivan hung his head in practiced shame, a surefire way to be overlooked as another lowly prisoner. "I am following Frau Moyer's orders."

"You mean you're not part of the project? You're in worker uniform," the technician noted. "Where's your ID?"

"I have no ID. Frau Moyer gave me this to wear while I painted," Ivan said, pulling at the rough canvas of the uniform. "I was coming back here for paint, sir. You see, I'm sort of clumsy and I dropped the last can we had in the hangar."

The man took a deep breath, pulling the folder away from him. "You're from the camp, aren't you? My, you're rather large for a prisoner. Most of the ones I see here are skin and bones."

"No, sir. I am a Russian from a POW camp," Ivan said, pulling down the sleeve of the worker uniform. Strapped around his arm was an armband with POW written crudely on the fabric. "See? I come from Stalag XVIII-A in Wolfsberg. Not a concentration camp."

The technician nodded. "Very well, then. Carry on." He walked past Ivan, keeping his head held high. Ivan happened to look down at the folder in his arms, a thick one with _Projekt Auto_ written on the front. The exact folder Frau Moyer carefully built over the past month.

"Are you supposed to have that?" Ivan put a hand over his mouth, remembering he wasn't supposed to speak out of line. The technician flinched, looking back at Ivan with worry. Did he seriously think Ivan was going to attack him?

"Yes. I am mailing it to Berlin," he explained with a tremor in his words. "The launch is in eleven days and they need the plans by tomorrow. And I suggest that if you want to make it out of this factory without a visa to Mauthausen, you should keep your mouth shut."

"I'm terribly sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry. I'm trying to help you. I'd hate to see someone like you go to waste. You're not concentration camp material yet." With that, the technician carried on down the hall and disappeared around the corner.

Ivan felt a terrible amount of dread come over him, and not from the thought of a concentration camp. He went back into the office, locking the door once more and going over to the drawer where the manuals and blueprints for Project Auto were kept. Frau Moyer was very defensive of the stack of papers, often slapping Ivan away if he got too close to them. He wrenched the drawer open, amazed to find it unlocked. Grabbing a manual from the top of the pile, Ivan opened it to the first page – the project outline. _Vergeltungswaffe_ was printed in bold in the middle of the page. Did he want to read past that word?

"The V-1 launch date is 14 June, 1944," he read aloud. "All test models must be sent to the site by 7 June, 1944. Any military producer who fails to comply will be court martialed and shot for treason. Any civilian producer will be immediately arrested and dealt with accordingly."

The vague description made things ten times worse. Ivan flipped through the rest of the booklet, searching for a more detailed explanation of what a V-1 was. For all he knew, it could be something as menacing as a new tank or as simple as a radar. Whatever a _vergeltungswaffe_ was, it was not good.

A note slipped out from the booklet, fluttering to the desk. Ivan snatched it up, startled to find a general's name printed at the top of the page. He knew Frau Moyer had lots of odd contacts; he never heard of a General Hauptmann.

 _On 7 June, 1944, the V-1 rocket will be taken to testing facilities in France,_ the note started in sharp military handwriting _. If approved, the rocket will be sent on to London. We are expecting it to do mass civilian damage during the test runs and possibly run military attacks by the end of June._

 _Your instructions for your workers are as follows:_

 _Colonel Ivan Braginsky, serial number 202870, must be executed on 7 June, 1944. A firing squad can be summoned if necessary. No records will remain of his work at the Graz munitions factory. His prisoner records are to be destroyed. Everything in his possession will be destroyed as well. Anyone who was aware of Colonel Ivan Braginsky's work will be executed, including the commandant of Stalag XVIII-A in Wolfsberg. His replacement will be able to take over at –_

The note fell out of Ivan's hand. He stared at the note until everything else became blurred, his pulse drumming in his ears. Ivan picked the note back up, shoving it in his pocket. He couldn't bear to read any more of it, however, part of him thought that maybe Frau Moyer would forget if she did not have the note.

Ivan slumped down into the chair before his legs gave out, holding his head in his hands. Tears stung at his eyes and his hands would not stop shaking. The world felt as if it stopped. His thoughts were empty and his vision was a mess of colours. There was no escape, no quick way out like the troubles he'd run into before. He was going to die, and that was final.

Frau Moyer thought she could hide everything from Ivan, even his own death.

She forgot that Ivan was not a typical mindless Soviet soldier. He was a criminal and a thief who escaped every arrest. He outsmarted a German scientist. He found ways around everything, searched through everything until he found a loophole. Ivan was not going to let Frau Moyer use him for one more damn minute, even if it killed him.

He snatched up a pair of pliers and a wrench from the desk, going off into the adjoining room where the pieces of the _vergeltungswaffe_ were waiting. The pieces that were designed by his hands to kill his allies. With shaking hands Ivan turned on the lights, picking a larger piece of rocket internals.

Rage, unfortunately, was Ivan's best attribute. Paired with his ability to memorize nearly anything, anger made for quite a powerful weapon. Ivan knew exactly what wires he had to cut, what parts needed to be torn out, and which circuits were irreplaceable. He could destroy a month's work in two minutes.

Ivan pushed open the cover of the delicate wires, cutting two of the delicate tendrils. He took out a mess of relays and smashed a fragile piece against the stone floor. And as gently as he had first built them, Ivan covered the ruined internals with a sheet and put them back in their exact place.

He did the same with another clump of metal and wires. And another. And another.

Before he knew it, he was out of rocket pieces to sabotage. He was left with a pile of scraps and a huge anger swelling in his chest. Ivan gathered up the scraps, tucking them into the last empty cavity that used to hold the radar for the rocket. He sealed it up and put it back against the wall, walking out of the room calmly as if nothing happened.

Ivan grabbed a can of white paint from by the door and went off to finish what was left of the _vergeltungswaffe._

* * *

Gilbert closed his eyes, listening to the gunshots.

 _Eins._

 _Zwei._

 _Drei._

 _Vier._

Four shots for four escapees. Gilbert found himself thankful that they were Russian escapees – the Soviets did not get the full detailed reports like the British and the French. He would have to add their names to the records, make an illegible scribble by their name, and pretend to look for surviving family members. Of all the deaths, Soviets were the easiest. Gilbert would rather have a thousand Soviets die than one Frenchman.

"We're playing from the office to the fence," Alfred said, bringing Gilbert back to the dusty strip of dirt between the barracks. "No tacklin' Raivis, but the commandant's fair game."

"Why can't they tackle me?" Raivis asked, looking up at Alfred. "I'm strong, I can handle it."

"Kid, you'll break in two if someone like Arthur so much as touches you," Alfred said as he ruffled Raivis' golden curls. Raivis grumbled something about being eighteen – or so he thought he turned eighteen in November. He was rather small for an eighteen-year-old, small enough that everyone could pick him up.

"Hey, Commandant, did you tell your guards what we're doing?" Sadik asked. "I don't want to get shot."

"Yes, they know. It's not my fault if they don't follow my orders, though."

"That's reassuring," Alfred said, glancing at the guard towers. "Okay, guys, don't hit Commandant too hard or you might get shot. If one of you assholes throw my football over the fence again, you owe me a new one and half your next Red Cross package. I'm not responsible for any blood, broken bones, or deaths."

"What _are_ you responsible for?" Arthur said. "Come on, I don't want to be here all night listening to you ramble on."

"Just for that, my team's got the kickoff. Toris, are you sure you don't want to play?" Alfred asked. "We could always use another man."

Toris, who had been quietly writing in a worn journal, slammed the book closed and looked up. "No, I'm good keeping score," he assured him, his face bright red. "Besides, I'm worse than Raivis. I'm not smart enough to understand what's going on."

"Stop it. American football's the easiest sport in the world. You don't have to be smart to play it."

"That says a lot about America, doesn't it?" Heracles said in perfect German to Raivis.

"Shut up, Karpusi. Let's hurry up and get this game going," Alfred said, tossing the ball to Arthur. "There you go, Eyebrows. Kick it. And don't mess up this time."

Sunday nights were Gilbert's favourite; he went as far as finishing his work so he could play American football with Barracks Two. Their field was a dirt path between the rows of barracks, since the Europeans claimed the actual field as theirs and refused to let the Americans go near it. Gilbert didn't mind playing in the alley, although grass would have made for a lot less bruises. The roughness of it all reminded Gilbert of the games he would play with Ludwig when they were younger, which always ended in a fight.

Stalag XVIII-A was no different. Before it got dark, someone would be shouting. Alfred said it was because everyone was so mad at each other, and football was a good way to let out some of that aggression. Gilbert figured it was because everyone liked a fight. Whatever the reason was, it was easy to tell who was angry with who by how hard they tackled each other.

And so the game carried on, just a few hundred meters from where four Russians had been shot that evening. Alfred tried to explain plays to Sadik, Arthur, and Gilbert as the guards carried the bodies off to be thrown in a mass grave. Heracles scored the touchdown that tied the game as the brick wall where the executions took place was cleaned off in case someone came on a surprise inspection.

Despite so much evil going on around them, there was a small bright spot between the barracks. A hope made with American football.

"Hey, Alfred," Gilbert said as he pushed Heracles off of him, "Is it legal to punch someone?"

"Legal? Herr Commandant, this is nowhere close to legal football. The other team's on their first and eighth," Alfred said as he gestured to the other team. Gilbert nodded and acted like he knew what a first and eighth was. "This is street football. As long as you're not trying to kill someone, you can do about anything."

"Alright. Karpusi, the next time you touch me, I'm going to beat your brains out," Gilbert snapped.

Heracles shrugged. " _Ich verstehe nicht_ ," he said in broken German.

"You speak better German than some of those Jerries," Arthur said. "Stop acting dumb."

"I do not want to understand you," Heracles said matter-of-factly.

"Referee Laurinaitis, will you please disqualify Heracles?" Sadik asked. Toris looked to Alfred for help, the American offering a confused smile in reply.

"I don't believe I can disqualify someone for not speaking fluent German," Toris said. "Sorry."

"Oh, you're no fun," Gilbert said right as a truck pulled into the gravel drive. Strange, he didn't order any patrols that day. The truck wasn't from Stalag XVIII-A either – it bore the name of a satellite camp of a stalag in Slovenia. He didn't recognize the driver or the guard that got out of the back of the truck.

He did recognize Ivan getting out of the truck in handcuffs.

"Shit, I have to go," Gilbert said, grabbing his uniform jacket from where he'd left it in the dirt. He ran up to the front porch, running his hands through his hair and trying to wipe all the dirt off his clothes. When he went inside, the guards were leaving, Elizabeta looked incredibly mad with Gilbert, and Ivan was nowhere to be seen.

"What?" Gilbert asked, feeling like he'd done something wrong.

"Ivan saw the executed prisoners' bodies," Elizabeta said. "He's in your office and he is not happy." She went back to the phone, ignoring Gilbert and his thousands of questions.

"Did I know them, Herr Commandant?" Ivan said when Gilbert came into the office. He was rubbing his wrists, trying to hide the deep red marks from the handcuffs.

"No, you wouldn't have. They were new and a little too hopeful," Gilbert replied, throwing his jacket over the back of his chair. It was too hot for military perfection.

"Is that what it's called?" Ivan asked. "Wanting to survive and make it out of this war alive is having a little too much hope for you Germans?"

"Yes, it is. They had no reason to escape," Gilbert said. "So, why were you in handcuffs when you came in here? I don't believe I got a call today from the factory."

Ivan gave Gilbert a clenched smile. "Herr Commandant, I don't believe you understand what's happening here. Soviets are being killed for nothing. Their only hope of living is by escaping. No matter how many of them you execute, they are going to keep trying." He leaned over the desk and pushed reports away, his eyes flashing with anger. "We're resilient, Herr Commandant. If a Russian has to climb over the bodies of his people to get free, he will."

"They can continue to kill themselves or start behaving. I don't care. I will kill as many of them as I need to make a point."

"Would you kill Toris?" Ivan asked in a low voice. "Would you kill Raivis? Would you kill me? We're Soviets."

"I would shoot you in a heartbeat," Gilbert replied without hesitating.

"What about everyone else?"

"Toris would be easy to kill. Raivis doesn't have legal papers. I could do anything with that boy and there would be no laws to protect him," Gilbert said. "Murder is the one crime the army doesn't look down on. I could get away with a lot."

"You're lying to them, Herr Commandant," Ivan snarled, grabbing Gilbert by his collar and pulling him close. Gilbert put a hand on his pistol, hoping he wouldn't have to resort to violence. He'd had enough violence for the night. "You act like you love them, and all you want is to kill them so you can get promoted. I saw you out there, playing with them and earning their trust. You say that I'm insane. I don't think I'm anywhere close to being as mad as you are."

"It's not insanity. It's strategy. Tell me about the handcuffs."

"Strategy?" Ivan laughed, letting Gilbert go. "Oh, yes, murder is a strategy. Murder of innocent people who believe you are protecting them! Murder of innocent people who care for you more than you know! Murder of people who obey your every command and look up to you even though you're the enemy!" He slammed his hands down on Gilbert's desk. "Tell them, you sick bastard. Go out there and tell them that you couldn't care less about their miserable lives."

"I do care about them, Braginsky. However, when push comes to shove, I will have no trouble killing them," Gilbert said. "If the Reich wants me to kill them, I will."

Ivan grinned again, standing up straight. "I didn't think I was talking to Ludwig Beilschmidt. Has the Reich gotten into your head too, Herr Commandant? Are you another mindless slave like your brother?"

"I'm loyal," Gilbert said, feeling his heart sink. He sounded exactly like Ludwig, like the too-loyal soldiers Gilbert used to laugh at.

"Sure you are."

"This is not about me, Braginsky. Why did you come here in handcuffs?"

"I found out they were going to kill me when I got done working at the factory," Ivan said. "And so I refused to work. They saw me as unruly and sent me back here for your discipline. Go ahead and shoot me now so I don't have to put up with your lies."

"They were going to kill you?" Gilbert said; he did not remember that from the contract.

"And you, too. Anyone who knew about my work was going to die. How's that for German loyalty, Herr Commandant?"

* * *

"Goodbye, Christian."

Francis half-heartedly smiled. " _Adieu_. It was fun while it lasted, von Wolffe. Maybe we can meet up sometime after the war. I'd love to take you to Paris in the spring. Everything is so beautiful during springtime."

"Ja, spring would be good." Roderich would be dead long before spring. And yet he forced himself to agree, forced himself to say happy parting words instead of all the sad things he wanted to pour out before Francis was gone forever. Before Roderich was gone forever.

"You should see the Tuileries Garden with me. My father would always take me there in the spring, before he left us." Francis laughed to himself; Roderich would never hear that wonderful laugh again. "What a horrible thing to say before I leave you," he added. "I'm not going to be like my father and run out on you."

"I wouldn't mind if you did. Everyone else has already run out on me."

"Don't say that," Francis said, growing serious. "You have so many people who are here for you. They would die for you. I would die for you."

"Was that a compliment?" Roderich asked, blinking back tears.

"Yes, it was. You are going to Headquarters tonight, aren't you?"

"I'll tell them what you wanted me to."

"And you'll take care of the house?"

"I'll do what I can, but you've left your house in Feliks and Eduard's hands. I can't promise there will be a house when you return," Roderich said.

"You have your keys Basch gave you, right?" Francis said, seeming to regret giving Feliks and Eduard full control. "In case you need anything."

Roderich nodded, feeling a stray tear roll down his face.

"Oh, dear, don't cry. It'll be fine," Francis said, as if he wasn't on the verge of tears himself.

"You're going to be gone forever," Roderich said. "This is the last time I'm ever going to see you or Lilli."

"No, this will not be the end. You will find a way to survive this, Roderich von Wolffe. Fight for your life. Whatever you do, don't give up quite yet. There's always something you try."

Roderich said those words only two days ago to Francis. Two days ago, when everything was fine and death was still a faraway thought. Roderich would give anything to go back to that day. He could have said so much more than he did.

"God, Christian, have I ever told you how much I love you?" Roderich asked, wiping away his tears. "Because I love you ten times more right now."

"I feel the same." Francis put his suitcase down, pulling Roderich into a hug. Roderich buried his face in Francis' shoulder, taking in everything about Francis. His expensive black-market cologne, his soft golden curls that were too long for the Nazi's liking, his strong arms and shoulders – Roderich tried to remember every detail.

"What am I going to do without you, Francis?" Roderich asked. "I can't make it another day."

"Of course you can, _mon cher_. It's just one day more."

"I'm going to be shot or hung tomorrow."

"Or you're going to live. There is always that option."

Roderich looked up at Francis. "I love you and your optimism."

"I love you too," Francis said with a smile, letting Roderich go. "You remember that, Roderich. I will always be here for you as long as I live."

"Thank you." Roderich turned to Lilli, feeling rude for ignoring her for so long. The poor girl was already sobbing – Roderich put his arms around her and pulled her close. She was so grown up, a completely different girl from the tiny fourteen-year-old Roderich ran into so many years before. Who knew what she could do with the rest of her life?

"Be good," Roderich said, stroking Lilli's blonde hair. He'd learned how to braid with Lilli's hair, the girl teaching him all sorts of fancy things that didn't come out right when Roderich tried them. "Do you hear me? You do everything Christian says. He knows what's good for you."

"Oh, Herr von Wolffe, how am I supposed to do this?" Lilli asked. "I can't leave Vienna. I can't even speak French."

"Christian will teach you. He taught me."

"I taught you the curses," Francis corrected with a smile.

"Close enough," Roderich said. "Trust me, Lilli, you will be fine. I promise you everything will be alright. You're almost seventeen. Why, soon you'll have a boyfriend and then you'll be married and before you know it, you'll have a family of your own. You won't need some old bastard like me."

"Roderich, we have to go," Francis said, gesturing to the train that had pulled in.

"Goodbye, Lilli. I'll see you sometime in the future." _Hopefully not soon_ , Roderich said to himself.

"Goodbye, Herr von Wolffe," Lilli said as she gave Roderich another hug. "I'll miss you the most."

Francis handed Roderich the envelope with the train tickets, a ring, and a letter from Natalya. His last mastermind plan. Roderich and Francis worked on the plan late into the previous night and put the final details in hours ago. Operation Elizabeta, they'd jokingly named it. "Good luck, Roderich. You're going to need it."

The last few goodbyes were bittersweet and painful. Roderich stood on the platform and watched as Lilli and Francis disappeared into the train. He forced back tears – for he was alone now, and crying would have made him look especially weak. And as the train left, Roderich held himself together. He stood still and did not cry and did not think and did not do anything other than breathe.

The man who saved his life was gone. The girl who he protected like his own daughter was gone.

And he was dying tomorrow morning.

Roderich turned around and left the station. He walked in the opposite direction from his home, towards the big park where the Danube River cut through Vienna. He didn't stop walking when he reached the park. Roderich kept going, his mind empty and his heart broken. Even though he wanted to go home, Roderich promised he would go to Gestapo Headquarters for Francis.

He was almost sad as he walked up the steps to Gestapo Headquarters; he would never come to the mortifying building again to ask Ludwig to go drinking. Roderich stopped in the doorway, tearing open the envelope. There were the train tickets, the letter, and –

The ring was not in the package. The key element to getting married was missing. Roderich looked around, wondering if he dropped it. Sure enough, there was a gold band on the steps next to his foot. He snatched it up and slipped it over his ring finger, not remembering the ring being so big. Roderich was sure Francis found one at least close to his size; the ring gapped and nearly slid off his finger when he put his hand down. And it had tiny swastika imprints – Roderich was certain the ring Francis got was a plain band.

 _Oh well,_ he thought to himself as he walked inside. _If anything, it's more believable. Francis outdid himself on that one._

" _Guten Abend_ , Herr von Wolffe," the tired secretary said, looking ready to quit her job. " _Kriminaldirektor_ Beilschmidt is still here, if you're looking for him."

" _Danke_ ," Roderich said as he headed off down the hall. He didn't bother to knock; Ludwig wouldn't care.

"Roderich?" Ludwig sounded as tired as the secretary when he got up, his blue eyes clouded with sleep. "What are you doing here? My God, what happened?"

Roderich held up his hand, pasting on a smile and praying his eyes weren't red. "I'm getting married. Tomorrow, in Paris."

"To that French model, right?" Ludwig said, pretending he'd forgotten her name. "Or is there another affair I should know about?"

"Adeline," Roderich said as he took the letter Natalya begrudgingly wrote from his pocket. He handed it over to Ludwig, who took a long time to read it. Roderich couldn't be sure if he was planning something or so tired he couldn't read.

"Congratulations," Ludwig said, handing the letter back to Roderich.

"Would you like to come celebrate with me?" Roderich asked. It was the last time he would ever ask Ludwig to come drink with him, and Roderich wouldn't miss it. "Mathias is taking me out and he said I could bring you along."

"Sure. I don't have work tomorrow, thank God," Ludwig said, putting away the last of his work. Roderich couldn't resist a grin.

Operation Elizabeta was a go.

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Vergeltungswaffe (V-1): The V-1 rocket was an autopiloted bomb made by Germany specifically for attacks against Britain. It was 25 feet long and had a wing span of 16 feet. Loaded with fuel, it weighed 2 tons and it had a warhead of 2,000 lbs of explosives. They had a maximum range of 250 miles, meaning they had to be launched from either France or the Netherlands. The first V-1 launched on June 13, 1944. Until March of 1945, 10,500 V-1 rockets were launched at Britain.**

 **Stalag football: In stalags like Stalag XVIII-A there was a lot of free time, so many prisoners organized their own sort of sports. Most of the time there were very few rules, as it was more of a way to stay sane than to compete. Some stalags did have a field for prisoners, but the size of the fields led to fights between prisoners. If you ever have a chance to play street football or baseball, do it!**

 **Tuileries Garden: The Tuileries Garden is a huge public garden in Paris between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. Originally it was the gardens for the Place de la Concorde before being opened to the public in 1667. There's lots of beautiful statues and flowers and ponds – it's the ideal place for any painter. The Arc de Triomphe is also nearby, if you're into that.**

 **I'm so sorry this is a day late, I had an interview for an exchange program yesterday and wow, was it a long day!**

 **Thank you's go out to** Violet Thropp **,** WonderfulWondyWorld **,** EllaAwkward **, and my lovely** Swing-Stole-My-Heart! **Thank you all for putting up with me!**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	24. Fretta

His city was silent the morning of June 5th, as if it knew.

Roderich stood at the window, watching his final sunrise. How many times did he watch the sunrise before he died? It was such an everyday thing that he hadn't bothered to pay attention to it before. Now Roderich found himself wishing that he would have done more of the little things like watching a sunrise. There were so many things he thought were unimportant that became very precious in a matter of days. Seeing things through a dying man's eyes changed everything; he wished he could have realized it sooner.

"It's weird to think I'll never see this hellhole again," Mathias said. "I just started liking the place, too. Austria isn't half bad."

Roderich turned away from the window, watching Mathias wrestle his shirt on. "I wish you would have come here before the war," Roderich said. "Austria used to be beautiful."

"Everywhere used to be beautiful," Mathias corrected. "War turns any place into a mess. My dad sent me a picture of Hanstholm, where I grew up with Lukas. I remembered it being this cute fishing village. In the picture, half the houses are boarded up. Everyone's left for Sweden, where they won't feel like so much of a traitor to their own damn country. Because God forbid Denmark actually stand up for itself for once. We gave into the Nazis after thirty minutes."

The room went quiet, Mathias looking down at the impeccably clean floorboards. "Sorry," he said. "I talk too much. I didn't mean to get so pissed about it."

"It's fine," Roderich assured him. "I didn't know any of that. And today is a good day to learn. Do you have anything else you want to tell me before we go? I'm happy to listen."

"One time Lukas and I tried to steal a boat and run away to Norway," Mathias started with a smile. "It didn't work that well. We stole the boat; that was the easy part. We made it all the way to Norway before Lukas remembers I can't speak Norwegian and we have about twenty _kroner_ between the two of us. We bought a huge salmon as an apology and made the hour trip home," he said, his grin fading.

"I told my parents that Lukas and I went to a nearby town. I was too scared to say I'd gone to Norway. I guess they won't ever find out about it," he said. "That's kind of depressing."

Mathias' parents would never hear his stories. They would never see their son's stupid smile. They would never have the chance to say goodbye to him.

"It was nice while it lasted," Roderich said.

"It was. I wish everything was still like that."

"Don't we all?" Roderich twisted the ring on his finger, the ring for an imaginary wedding to a woman he did not love. "Are you ready to go?"

Mathias smiled again. "Only if you are."

Ludwig's house was always clean and vacant looking. The powder blue hallway was empty of the odd things most people liked to hang up, each doorknob free of smudges. The floor was too clean for someone who came home with blood on his clothes and owned a white dog. Everything that could be seen was neat and orderly, as if Ludwig was waiting for some important guest to walk in at any minute.

If there was such thing as the personification of German stereotypes, Ludwig had to be it.

"I'll run over and get the radio started up," Mathias said in a low voice. "You get the gun. Do you have the music ready?"

Roderich nodded. Mathias gave him a playful shove and a _Viel Glück_ before disappearing around the corner. Moments later, Roderich heard the front door close; Mathias was already running off to Roderich's house.

Roderich looked back at the hall, feeling his heart sink. It wasn't in the plan to wake up at Ludwig's house. When they were writing up Operation Elizabeta, Francis said it would be better if they could ditch Ludwig and go to Roderich's house. Ludwig made different plans for them; he could be so manipulative, even when he was drunk. And although Mathias and Roderich were completely sober, they figured it was better to follow along with Ludwig than get shot.

"Ludwig?" Roderich called, knocking on the door he knew was Ludwig's. He spent so many nights there that some weeks he felt like he was living with Ludwig.

"You're already awake?" Ludwig's tired voice replied. "That's rather impressive for you. Please, come in."

Roderich bit his lip –Ludwig destroyed another plan by simply being Ludwig. Mathias and Roderich were counting on Ludwig still being asleep. He pushed open the door, not one bit surprised to find Ludwig getting ready for work. That man would not let one day get away from him.

"Good morning," Ludwig said. "When is your train leaving for Paris?"

"At 6:30. I wanted to tell you goodbye before I left, although I didn't think you would be awake. I guess I was wrong."

"I've gone to work with a broken arm before. Hochstetter returned two days after he was shot in the heart. I won't let something like a hangover get me in trouble with the superiors."

"You're so good it almost hurts me," Roderich said. "Can't you do something wrong and give the rest of us a chance?"

Ludwig shook his head. "I can't help who I am." He smoothed out his uniform as if it wasn't good enough for him already. "You should probably get going. I would hate for you to miss your train."

"Ja, I should. It was nice knowing you, Ludwig," Roderich said with semi-honesty. Over the past three years, he had come to call Ludwig an odd sort of friend. Of course, Roderich hid a lot from Ludwig, but there were lots of other things he could trust the _kriminaldirektor_ with. In a sense, that made them friends.

"Will you be coming back?" Ludwig asked, looking straight ahead at the mirror.

"Maybe," Roderich said. "I'm afraid I won't be seeing you for a long time, though."

"I understand. If I were you, I wouldn't want to ever come back here. Be careful out there, please. I won't be in Paris to carry you home," Ludwig said, grabbing his pistol from his nightstand and shoving it in his holster. Roderich was supposed to take out the pistol's firing pin – so much for that idea.

"No, you won't. Thank you for everything you've done for me here. I would be dead without you," Roderich said, cursing himself for not stealing Ludwig's gun while he could. He missed the opportunity to give himself time to live.

"Thank you for taking care of me," Ludwig said. "You were the first person I met here. If I didn't have you, I have no idea where I would be. Thank you for trusting me, even though I work for the Gestapo. And I'm so sorry about everything I've done…especially your father."

Roderich felt like he'd been slapped. "No, don't apologize," he said, forcing himself into composure. "You did what you had to. I don't blame you for anything."

"You should. I was the one who reopened the case a few weeks ago. My brother started talking about it and then he said…Oh, I'm sorry," Ludwig apologized, his face going red. "I didn't mean to bring this up. You should go before I make things worse."

"Don't worry about it," Roderich said, truly meaning it. "You haven't done anything wrong. _Auf Wiedersehen,_ Herr Beilschmidt."

" _Auf Weidersehen_ , Herr von Wolffe. I hope everything goes well for you, wherever you end up."

"I hope I can see you after this war."

Roderich left knowing he would be seeing a different side of Ludwig in a few hours. At least he ended things on a happy note, before he was looking down the barrel of a Luger.

"Roderich, is that you?" Mathias called when Roderich came into his house.

"Yes. Sorry, there were problems with Ludwig. I didn't get the gun."

"Whatever, it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Come in here. We've got Francis on the phone."

The living room was indescribable. There were no words to describe the mess of wires and machinery Mathias and Lukas set up, no words to use for the feeling of dread that hung over them. Natalya was on the phone, speaking perfect French. Lukas and Mathias were together as always, arguing about where a cable should go. Feliks and Eduard were thankfully quiet, as someone must have told them what was happening. And Roderich was in the middle of the too awful for words catastrophe.

"Francis says he's waiting on some American to give them the go-ahead," Natalya said, looking up at Roderich. "It's raining in Normandy and they're not sure they can make it. If it were Russians invading instead of the Englanders, we would not have this problem. Russians would cross the sea in the middle of a hurricane."

"I swear to God, if this gets cancelled…" Mathias didn't bother to finish his sentence, as everyone was thinking the same thing.

"At least we won't be dead immediately," Roderich said, sitting down beside Natalya. "Have you picked out a nice suit for the wedding, Herr Arlovskya?"

"I'll borrow one of yours, fräulein. And I see Francis found you a ring." Natalya grabbed his hand, pulling it closer. "Shame, it doesn't match mine." She held up her own ring ringer, showing off the alexandrite ring Roderich bought her a few Christmases ago. "I do like the swastikas. It's very Nazi of you." She slipped the oversized ring from his finger, looking it over.

"It feels wrong to wear a ring," Roderich said. "And especially one that's marrying me to you."

"I feel the same way." Natalya stared at a certain spot in the ring where the swastikas didn't quite match up with the rest, her eyebrows furrowing together.

" _Francis_ ," she said, holding the phone up to her ear, " _Où avez-vous obtenu l'anneau de Roderich_?" She held up the ring, tapping her thumb on the edge of a swastika.

A tiny spike popped out.

"It's laced with poison," she said. "It can kill a man in a minute. Lots of criminals carry them for a quick escape."

"Are you serious?" Roderich asked, taking the ring from her. Natalya nodded, pushing the spike back into place for Roderich.

"Yes. Francis says he got it from the Gestapo when he was changing out a few old records. You should probably keep that on you for later in case you lose the cyanide," she said as if their death was an everyday topic. " _Quelle? Oh, out. Je comprends. Je vais leur dire d'arrêter…Et Lilli?...Bien. J'aime cette fille_." Natalya hung up the phone, an almost-smile on her face.

"What is it?" Feliks asked with a bit of hope in his voice.

"Lilli is on her way to Switzerland," she said. "Her train should have just gotten to the border."

"So Lilli gets to live, but not us?" Eduard said, sounding rather offended. Roderich didn't blame him.

"Because you two are way too Russian," Mathias said, shoving a cable into the back of the transmitter. "You would be arrested before you even got out of Vienna. Besides, you get to be with us. We're fun."

"Fun," Feliks muttered, holding his head.

"That's not the best part," Natalya continued. "We get to live another day. The storm is too bad to carry on with the invasion."

"Thank God for rain," Lukas said with the first smile Roderich had seen out of him in a long time.

* * *

"Daan, have you seen my shirt?" Basch asked, looking through the footlocker that kept half the barracks' possessions. The other half didn't have anything to call their own. "I swear I was wearing it last night. If this is one of your damn games, I'll have to kill you."

"No. I have not seen it. Maybe Boris took it," Daan replied as he lit up a half-cigarette. Of course he was no help when Basch needed help. Daan only helped when something was in it for him.

"Why would that creep take my clothes?"

"He thinks you're cute," Daan said. "Wants to see you out of uniform. Look at pretty Swiss boy with no shirt."

Basch snatched up a stray shoe, throwing it Daan's way. Daan ducked, letting the shoe hit the wall with a dull thump. "Shut up," Basch snarled, slamming the footlocker closed. "We have roll call in five minutes and if I show up out of uniform again, Boris has to put my name on the list. And I would rather stay off the list."

"Why? I'm on list. I'm not dead."

"I'm sure they'll be killing you soon, if I don't get to you first."

"I have extra jacket. From first camp. They almost look alike," Daan said, going over to his bunk. He pulled a nearly identical grey jacket from under the mattress, taking off his own. Giving his jacket to Basch, he put on the old one. "See? No difference."

"Except you forgot that I'm much shorter than you." Basch pulled on Daan's jacket, his fingertips barely peeking out from the cuffs. "I look like a little kid."

Daan smiled. "Suits you well."

Rollcall started later than usual – which was both good and bad. While a late start meant that Basch and Daan got a few extra minutes of not working, it also meant that a roundup was happening. Roundups were the one thing that scared Basch. Every few weeks, a German officer would prowl up and down the long lines of prisoners, calling off names from a list, prisoners strong enough be used for a project or something worse. The men selected rarely came back, and the ones who returned didn't live very long afterwards.

"Is it June 5th?" Daan tugged on Basch's too long sleeve like a child. Basch ignored him, looking straight ahead at the back of Boris' head. Daan tugged on the sleeve once more.

"Daan, please, not now," Basch whispered, hoping to God that no one saw them. Talking during a roll call warranted a hanging.

"Is it June 5th? We have bet, remember?" Daan insisted. "I want payment."

"It is June 5th. If you don't shut up, you won't live to see the 6th," Boris answered without turning around. Basch saw him glance back for an instant, his worried eyes locking with Daan's.

"Where is the big invasion? Where are Allies?" Daan said. "Your friends are liars. Bad liars."

"They are not."

"Serious?" Daan threw the stump of his cigarette down, grinding it into the gravel. "Because I see no Allies. Boris?" he asked. "You see Allies?"

"I wish. I really, really wish I was seeing the Allies." Boris' voice was shaky and not very Boris-like at all. "Then I wouldn't have to be here with you lot. I could go to Sofia and forget about you two."

"Nothing big happened today. Pay up." Daan stuck out his hand towards Basch. Basch looked at his hand like Daan was asking for him to offer up his heart. He would have rather given up his heart than a chocolate bar.

"The day isn't over yet," Basch said as he shoved Daan's hand away. "Anything could happen between now and tomorrow. You'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"There won't be a tomorrow," Boris whispered, clenching fistfuls of his uniform.

"What's gotten into him?" Basch asked. Daan shrugged, pulling his tin of cigarettes back out of his pocket. He took out a full length one for himself, closed the tin and handed it to Basch. Basch opened it up, startled to find a handful of full cigarettes.

"What's this about?" Basch tried to hand the tin to Daan, but he shoved it away.

"Maybe you were right. Maybe there will be big invasion. That is my payment to you." He nodded towards the tin in Basch's hand. "I hope you like it. Gave me three marks on kill list."

"Hold on, this isn't fair." Basch took one of the chocolate bars from his pocket, handing it to Daan. "There. In case something doesn't happen. We're even."

Daan gently took the chocolate from him, peeling back a corner of the worn gold foil. He broke off a tiny half-melted piece, putting it in his mouth. "Never had German chocolate. Very good. Better than Dutch chocolate. Here, Boris." Daan broke off another piece, giving it to the Bulgarian. "Sorry it is not yogurt."

"Thank you," Boris said with a strange sincerity. Had the roundup gotten to everyone? "Yogurt would have made for a much better send –"

"Report," ordered the sharp voice of the officer in charge of roll call. Boris stood up straight, holding his head high like the German soldiers he denied staring at.

"Barracks 9 has 122 out of 124 prisoners present. 140967 died last night and 140231 is in the infirmary, _mein Herr_ ," Boris said in perfect German. Usually he tripped over the words or mixed them up for fun and ended up sitting in the commander's office getting basic German lessons.

" _Sehr gut_." The German soldier moved on, his heels clicking against the concrete path. About five rows before them, Basch could see the officer in charge of roundups. Soon he would hide in Daan's shadow and pretend to be invisible, praying that no one would call his number.

"Basch, how is Lilli?" Daan asked abruptly. "Is she alright?"

"Why do you care?" Basch replied. Daan wasn't interested in anyone's affairs, save for his own.

"Have you heard from her?"

"I got a letter last week. She said she was going to Paris with my cousin. From the sounds of it, she was rather excited about the trip."

"She is good?" Daan said with a tiny grin. "Good. And the Jew?"

"Roderich? Oh, Roderich…" Basch trailed off, remembering how Roderich said he was killing himself on June 5th. Had someone talked him out of it yet? "I can't say what's going on with Roderich. He's not right in the head. What about your family?" he said in a hasty attempt to change the subject. "Are they okay?"

"I am sure Laura is fine. And Laura is fine, Louis is fine. They do not need me." Daan's green eyes flicked over to the man picking out people for the round up. "Boris, what about your family?"

"I have a few brothers. They hate me. I love them more than they'll love me. My best friend has a brother who is like my own. He is very tiny. Cute, though," Boris answered. "Everyone lives in Sofia. We have apartments next to each other. On Sundays we go to someone's house for dinner." A stray tear rolled down from Boris' eyes and he stopped talking.

"Boris?" Basch asked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you. I'm sorry I get so emotional. I miss my family more than anything. I wonder if they will miss me."

The man picking people was two rows in front of them; he would be at their row in a second. Daan turned to Basch, grabbing him by the arm. "Basch, listen. You need to get out of here alive. Do whatever you have to do to survive. I want you to go back to Vienna. I want you to see Lilli and the Jew and everyone else."

"My God," Basch said, "What are you talking about?"

"120654!" the officer shouted.

Boris' number.

Boris stood still and did not fall out like he was supposed to. Basch heard him whispering what he could only assume were Bulgarian prayers. And when the prayer was finished, he glanced back at Basch and Daan, nodded, and stepped out of the column to join the selected.

Basch watched the man go, trying to understand what happened. It was a mistake. It must be a mistake. Officers were never selected, and not a loyal one like Boris. The man must have meant to say some other –

"140084!"

Criminal 140084 Basch Zwingli looked over at the German guard. He heard the wrong number. He had to have heard the wrong number. For the past few weeks there were no incidents, no fights, no warnings. The man calling the numbers held up the list in his hand, checking the number for himself.

"Who is 140084?" he growled, tapping his foot against the stone. Silence choked their row, people turning to look at Basch. Basch tried to make himself respond, to step out of line like Boris did. Instead he pretended it wasn't him and looked up at the sky, at the beautiful blue sky. The sky was always gorgeous above the worst places.

"140084!" a far-off voice shouted. Basch snapped out of his thoughts, looking at the German man. "Who is 140084?!"

"I am."

Basch froze. That was not his voice.

Daan took a step forward. "I am 140084, _mein Herr_."

"No, you're not!" Basch stepped out of line, grabbing Daan's arm. "I'm 140084! I'm Basch Zwingli! This is Daan van Dijk!"

"Get in line, 140196," the man said. "140084, out here."

"You've got it all wrong! I borrowed Daan's jacket this morning so I wouldn't be out of –" Basch stopped as he saw Daan turn to leave.

The number on the back of his jacket was partially missing, but Basch could make out the 140084.

"Do not let me die in vain," Daan said as he walked away, refusing to look back at Basch.

* * *

" _Achtundneunzig, neunundneunzig, und das macht hundert_."

Raivis put the last figure – a tiger – down among the wooden zoo. One hundred hand carved animals covered the patch of dirt, and those were only the ones that Toris kept for himself. There had to be at least another fifty given out for birthdays and Christmases, and there were a few tucked in coffins beneath the earth.

"What are you going to do with a hundred of these?" Raivis asked, holding up a rough looking horse. The date on the underside was March 1941, a few months after Toris was captured.

"I'm planning on giving them to Feliks. If he doesn't want them, I guess I'll sell them," Toris said as he wrung out a shirt, pinning it to the clothesline. "Unless you want them."

"We could go into business together," Raivis suggested, trading the horse for a parrot. The jungle animals were his favorites, as Toris modeled them after pictures from a book Arthur had. Raivis loved the book and the figures to pieces when he was younger – no one ever told him there were such things as monkeys and leopards.

"And what would your part of the business be?" Alfred asked. "You haven't done shit today. In the real world, you have to work. Toris won't always be there to do everything for you."

"Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. Before you know it, this war will be over and we'll have to go back to being regular people," Sadik said, handing another shirt over to Toris. "And even worse," he added, "You'll have to find yourself a job. Those are the worst."

Raivis put the parrot down between the jaguar and gorilla. "I'm not twelve anymore. I won't have any trouble out there."

"We're all going to have a lot of trouble out there," Arthur said. "We've been speaking stalag for the past four years. I can tell you I need a light in Polish, French, Italian, Greek, and Russian, but I can't have a proper English conversation anymore."

"We have no clue what's going on out there," Alfred said, jerking his thumb towards the fence. "What if I get to America and my president is a black man and there's twenty more states? The whole world could have changed while we were on our German vacation."

They were right; Raivis was oblivious when it came to life outside the fence. For four years of his short life he'd learned how to cheat at poker and Greek curse words, not how to get a job or buy a house. Out among civilization, Raivis would be a total wreck. Society did not want to hear how Raivis could count to a thousand in four languages. They wanted him to work and blend into the machine they called life.

Raivis almost wanted to stay in Stalag XVIII-A.

"What do you think it's like?" Heracles asked as he draped a blanket over one of the ropes crisscrossing between the walls of the barracks.

"I bet it's terrible," Raivis said. He picked a tiny wooden songbird from the menagerie, cupping it in his hands like he would a real bird. "There is a huge war going on, and the commandant keeps telling us we're losing."

Alfred put his pile of wet clothes back into the basin, coming over to Raivis. "Listen, kid," he said, putting a hand on Raivis' shoulder. "You have to learn something if you're going to make it out there. You can't trust a German with anything. See that guard?" He pointed to a man leaning on his rifle outside of the commandant's office. "He'd rob you blind if he got the chance." Alfred snapped to accent his point. "Not that it's hard to steal from you."

"I'm not that gullible," Raivis said.

"You're not?" Alfred's smile turned into a laugh. "Then tell me where that bird in your hand went off to. Did it get up and fly away?"

Raivis looked down in his empty hands, feeling like the child he didn't want to be. Alfred kept laughing, pulling the bird out of his pocket and tossing it back to Raivis.

"You have to be fast if you're going to live on the streets, kid. By the time you realized that bird was missing, I could have got it to France."

"Stop calling me kid. I'm seventeen," Raivis snapped. "I'm not a little boy anymore."

"Did you hear that?" Sadik asked, leaning over the clothesline. "He's seventeen. We have ourselves a real man right here."

"Stop it!" Raivis got up, trying his best to make himself look taller than the Turk. Sadik grinned as he ruffled Raivis' hair, making Raivis feel even shorter.

There was so much shame in being the youngest, a shame Raivis didn't want to bear for the rest of the war. Before, everyone coddled him and acted like he was their brother. Now everyone reminded him that he was and would forever be the smallest. Raivis was almost eighteen; he should be a part of the adults and not a child that needed to go in the other room when something serious was being discussed.

Raivis pushed Sadik's hand away, going back to the rows of figures. He sat down in the dirt, putting the carvings in their box. If they wanted a childish Raivis so bad, they could have him.

The offended Raivis façade worked for a while; Raivis could feel everyone's guilt. Every so often someone would try to apologize, then soon stop after realizing Raivis wasn't paying attention. And he would have kept it up, had he not come across a figure he didn't remember counting. He picked up the charred dog-shaped lump, searching for its date. There were no markings, making Raivis wonder if the burnt thing was even Toris'.

"What is this?" Raivis asked, holding up the figure. Toris took it from his hands, shoving it in his pocket before Raivis had a chance to say anything.

"That is none of your concern," he said too hastily.

"Who was it from?" Arthur said. "Because that wasn't a normal Toris voice."

"It's between Ivan and myself. Leave it at that," Toris snapped. Arthur muttered an English curse, returning to the laundry.

Raivis held back his own questions, knowing better than to argue with Toris. No one ever pushed Toris about anything. It was more out of sympathy than respect; he'd been through more than all of them combined. Raivis thought it was rather unfair. Toris cried more than Raivis, got out of a lot of work, and still everyone treated him like he was an adult. And Raivis got talked down to every day.

"Speak of the devil," he heard Sadik mumble. Raivis looked up from the animals, watching a guard truck come into the compound. Two guards dragged Ivan out – and Ivan was not fighting them. In fact, it looked more like the guards were carrying him. Toris said something snarky in Lithuanian about making a scene.

"What's going on with him?" Heracles asked. "He looks bad."

"Good. Serves him right." Raivis caught Toris smiling as he spoke.

"I don't know, that seems pretty excessive," Alfred said. "Like, Ivan's a bad guy, but I don't think he deserves to get the shit beat out of him by those Germans."

"I can go check on him," Raivis offered, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. "I still have my pass from when the colonel was having me file papers."

"Why don't you?" Arthur said. Toris shot him a glare, his green eyes flickering with anger.

"He's fine," he growled, his knuckles turning white as he clenched a wet shirt. "Raivis, you stay here."

Raivis got up, brushing the dust from his pants. "It's fine, really. I don't mind going. I need to move, anyway."

He started to walk off when he felt someone grab his wrist.

" _I_ don't want you going _,"_ Toris said, tightening his grip around Raivis' wrist. "I don't want you to get hurt. And Ivan deserved whatever's been done to him." He pulled Raivis back, forcing the boy to turn and face him.

"It's been three years since you last talked to him!" Raivis shouted, looking up at Toris. "He's been nothing except nice to you ever since then! And you're still pissed off about one incident a long damn time ago."

"I don't want him to hurt you," Toris said. "You're fragile, Raivis –"

"You're not my mother!" Raivis tore Toris' hand from him, pushing the Lithuanian away. Before Toris could grab him again, Raivis took off running for the commandant's office. He didn't stop running until he came to the front door, handing the guard his slip before bursting inside and slamming the door behind him.

Raivis paused to catch his breath for a moment, looking around the empty front room. Elizabeta was gone, her paperwork strewn across her desk in a very un-Elizabeta style. She was usually so neat and organized it made Toris jealous. Raivis went over to the door to Gilbert's office, listening for voices. There was nothing.

"Herr Commandant?" Raivis asked as he went into the room. Instead of Gilbert, Ivan was sitting in the commandant's chair with a hand held to his head. The windows were wide open, a breeze fluttering the curtains and pushing papers off Gilbert's desk. Ivan didn't move from his place or even look Raivis' way.

"Ivan?" Raivis took a few steps towards the man, remembering what Toris said. Ivan pulled his hand away from his head, his palm covered in slick red. A bruise on his cheekbone stood out against his pale skin. Another bruise adorned his collarbone. And blood ran down from a gash in his forehead, covering the left side of his face.

"Hello, _malyutka_ ," Ivan said, as cheery as ever. "I'm sorry I look so awful. I wasn't expecting to see anyone. Where is everyone else?"

"You're bleeding," Raivis said – the first thing he'd said to Ivan in three years. "You're bleeding really bad."

"How observant of you. It is not a bad cut, though. Head wounds bleed worse. No need to worry."

"What happened?" Raivis asked, taking a bandana Alfred gave him from his pocket. He came over to Ivan, handing the cloth to him.

"I did something wrong," Ivan said as he put the bandana to the gash. "And I got punished."

"Elizabeta, they're going to kill me!" Gilbert shouted from the other room before Raivis could reply. Ivan's grin faded. "They said I haven't show that I'm loyal," Gilbert continued, much to Ivan's dismay. "They're calling me, a war hero, disloyal. Losing my hearing, my nerves, my own _sanity_ wasn't enough for them. And you know how they're telling me to prove my loyalty to their Reich and save my life? They're having me kill Ivan myself!"

Ivan put his hand on Raivis' shoulder, his smile returning. "Thank you, Raivis. You should go back to the barracks before someone starts worrying about you."

* * *

Elizabeta could not sleep.

Neither could Gilbert.

"Everything will be alright," Gilbert whispered, as if that would fix everything. "I promise."

Elizabeta could not make herself believe him. They were in the middle of a war holding all of Europe in its clutches. There was no such thing as alright. "How will you do it?" she asked, having nothing better to say.

"I'll take him out tomorrow morning before roll call. He can choose how he wants to die. Then I file the official report with the administration and the factory and hopefully they won't kill me. After that, I forget about Ivan and go back to my life."

It was easy to talk about forgetting Ivan. Elizabeta went over it herself countless times after Gilbert told her everything. How were they going to overlook four years? Ivan played a huge role in both of their lives, and there was no way to ignore him.

"Where is he?" Elizabeta said. "You didn't say where you'd put him."

"He's in Barracks Two. Something wasn't right with his breathing, so I told Arthur to watch him for me. If he dies in his sleep, I'm dead." Gilbert sighed, rubbing his red eyes. "They need military documentation of his death, and it has to be caused by me."

"I can't believe they've pushed you into a corner like this," Elizabeta said. "What sort of empire turns against their own people? It's sick."

"War is sick, Frau Beilschmidt. It's turned my country into a mess. And to tell you the truth, I don't think it's going to get any better from here on out." Gilbert stopped talking and looked around as if someone was in the room with them. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone this, so don't you repeat it. There are plans for an Allied invasion soon," he whispered. "They're trying to invade Dunkirk again. And if Germany loses this time, it's over."

Elizabeta felt her heart skip a beat – the Allies were planning an invasion? She knew the war was no longer in Hitler's favor, however, she didn't think it was that bad. "Do we want it to be over?" she said, unsure of where Gilbert was standing politically. "Or do we want the Reich to win?"

"We?" Gilbert laughed. "We're not one person. You and I can have different opinions. It isn't against the law. Tell me, who do _you_ want to win?" he asked, poking her in the chest.

"The Reich," Elizabeta replied, trying to make the right choice.

"And why is that? Because your beautiful husband is part of the Reich? Because you think that's who I want to win?"

"Yes. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy."

"That's a shit mentality to be going through life with," Gilbert said. "What if I died tomorrow? Would you never be happy again?"

"Of course. You would be dead," Elizabeta said. Gilbert smiled, taking Elizabeta's hand in his own.

"This is why I love you. Remember that," Gilbert said. "Because if I do get hung tomorrow, you're going to be on your own. I don't think it will happen, but I can't promise anything."

Elizabeta couldn't imagine a life without Gilbert. Who would be there to make her laugh and push her closer to insanity? Who was going to talk with her late into the night? Who would be there to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay? Elizabeta needed Gilbert more than he needed her.

"I want the Allies to win," Gilbert said, turning away from Elizabeta. "I guess that's a bit odd, a Nazi wanting the Allies to crush Hitler. Oh well. _Gute Nacht_ , Frau Beilschmidt."

" _Gute Nacht_."

Elizabeta closed her eyes, her worries disappearing. Gilbert was right – it would be fine in the morning. They would do what they had to and move on with their lives.

The sharp trill of the phone tore Elizabeta out of her pleasant thoughts. She reached for it, but Gilbert grabbed the receiver before she could.

"Who in their right mind calls at midnight?" he grumbled before putting the phone up to his ear. "Hello? Colonel Beilschmidt speaking."

Elizabeta heard the muffled voice on the other end of the line, their words calm and sharp. The voice of a professional. Gilbert's face went blank as he listened, occasionally nodding as if the other person could see him.

"Who is it?" Elizabeta dared to ask.

"This is a test, isn't it?" Gilbert said, ignoring Elizabeta. "Well, Lieutenant Kastl, you'll be pleased to hear that Eduard von Bock died three years ago in Serbia and I do not need the Gestapo calling my home at midnight. Tell me, where is your superior officer? I'm sure he would not be happy to find out about –"

Gilbert stopped talking as a different voice took over the phone. Elizabeta recognized it, too. Was she willing to believe it?

"What…What day were you captured?" Gilbert said when he got the chance. "January 2nd, 1940," he repeated. "Hold on, I'm coming." Gilbert put the phone down, throwing the covers aside and grabbing the uniform he laid out for the next day.

"Who was that?" Elizabeta said.

"The Gestapo. They say they have a Captain Eduard von Bock who thinks he's supposed to come here," Gilbert replied as he buttoned up his jacket. "It can't be Eduard. However, the Gestapo man was very determined and wanted me there at this very moment. At least it will get me on the Gestapo's good side. I'll be back as soon as I can." He came over to the bedside and kissed her on the forehead, mumbling something of an I-love-you.

Elizabeta sat in the darkness for a long time after he left, trying to figure out what happened. There was no way Eduard could be at the Wolfsberg Gestapo – he was in Vienna with Roderich. When they last talked, Roderich said that Eduard was never going to return to the stalag. Eduard himself verified that. Having someone claiming to be Captain Eduard von Bock show up at midnight was nothing short of suspicious.

She heard someone knock on the back door; Gilbert must have forgotten the keys to his car. Elizabeta got up out of bed, going to the kitchen. In the darkness she found a key ring and pulled open the door.

"Here you…" Elizabeta faltered – it was not Gilbert standing in front of her.

"Whatever you do, do not scream," Roderich said, holding his hands out like Elizabeta was some sort of wild animal. "Please, do not draw any attention to yourself. I'm not here for you."

"What's going on?" Elizabeta asked, putting the keys down and pulling Roderich inside. She closed the door behind him, making sure to lock it. "Come with me, I don't want you out here where someone can see you."

"Am I that big of a disgrace to you?" Roderich said as Elizabeta led him into her quarters, watching her close the blackout curtains for extra precautions. "I can leave right now if you don't want anyone to see me."

"It's not that I don't want anyone to see you, it's that –"

"You don't want anyone to start thinking things, do you?" Roderich interrupted. "You don't want someone to see the two of us because you're terrified someone will talk bad about you."

"It's not that."

"It is that," Roderich said, coming over to the woman. "You're so afraid of rumors that you won't give a dying man a chance to talk to you."

"Wouldn't you be afraid?" she shot back, her face hot. Roderich shook his head. For someone who showed up at midnight, he was rather calm and composed. He'd even gone through the trouble of putting on one of his better suits, complete with the Nazi accents he loathed.

"No, I wouldn't. Because I'm not scared of people saying dirty things behind my back," he said. "How do you think I've lived with myself all these years?"

"Did you come all this way just to insult me? That's so thoughtful of you. You're very lucky, von Wolffe," she said. "Gilbert left minutes ago. If he was here, he would have your head. Now I'm going to have to kill you for him."

"I know he's gone. I'm the one who got him out of the camp. It isn't that hard to put on a fake voice and make someone think a dead man is alive," Roderich said. "Eduard really is with the Gestapo, though. And Feliks. I made the two of them papers that said they'd been through the whole interrogation process and they're coming here."

"Why didn't you bring them here?"

"It would be too obvious. See, I'm already on a lot of watch lists and there are people out there waiting for me to slip up. It was easier to make up a few lies."

"I forgot you're a world-class liar," Elizabeta said with a hint of a smirk.

"I was. I'm not going to be alive for much longer," Roderich replied. "That's why everything was so rushed. And why I came here. See, I have to be dying in the morning –"

"What is it with you and killing yourself now? Is that something the Führer wants you to do? I don't think he would want to hear that his prized musician is suicidal."

Roderich's smile faded. He didn't seem so well composed anymore.

"Elizabeta, Hitler knows."

She looked up at Roderich, praying she heard him wrong. "No. No he doesn't."

"They know my father was Jewish. I don't write music anymore," Roderich snapped. "I am killing myself because I don't want your husband's brother to do it for me. This Jew is working with the Allies now. This Jew is going to change the war. And someone will find out. After I turn this war around, I have no other choice except suicide."

"Stop it!" Elizabeta grabbed Roderich by the shoulders, pulling him close. She hated herself for the sudden change of heart, however, she couldn't stand there and listen to Roderich talk about killing himself. "Don't say that. Don't you ever say that," she said. "You have so many other choices. I can get you out of Europe tonight if you need it."

"I have to do this for the Allies. I can't let Germany win."

"You can. You don't have to do this," she assured him. "Whatever you're doing, stop it. It isn't worth your life."

"Do you want to live like this forever?" Roderich asked. "Would you want to live under Hitler for the rest of your life? Would you want to watch your own people get killed for being nothing more than Hungarians? Would you want to watch the world fall apart in the hands of a madman?"

"Roderich, I don't want you to die. I love you, okay? I really love you."

Roderich smiled. "I didn't think we would ever feel the same way."

Elizabeta knew that kissing her ex-husband was probably a mortal sin. She at least recognized that much. Sin wasn't stopping either of them. Lost in the flawed person that Roderich was, Elizabeta didn't think about Gilbert or morals.

When they broke away, Elizabeta could tell that Roderich was thinking the same thing Elizabeta was. His violet eyes – those wonderfully strange eyes – were wide. He realized what he did too late.

"I…I should go," he stammered. Elizabeta nodded in agreement.

"Here. If you ever need something, go here," Roderich said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. An address was scrawled in between staffs full of music. "I'll…I'll see you later. I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused."

Elizabeta couldn't think of anything to say to Roderich; was there anything to say to a dying man? She let him go, trying to figure out why she ever left him.

* * *

 **History notes:**

 **Denmark in WWII: The invasion of Denmark was the shortest battle of WWII. It lasted only six hours, and 40 men were lost between Denmark and Germany. There were a few skirmishes, but Germany quickly took over and Denmark surrendered. A lot of Danes were upset with Christian X for surrendering, but in the end he did the right thing for his country. Denmark became a huge player in the sabotage business during the war, as most Danes were completely opposed to German rule. Go read _Courage and Defiance_ for more on Danish sabotage.**

 **Rainy weather: D-Day was really planned for June 5th, but the weather was so bad that day that the Allies decided to call it off. The storm made it too dangerous to cross the Channel.**

 **The second invasion of Dunkirk: The first invasion of Dunkirk, France, ended badly with a huge evacuation of Allied forces. Because Dunkirk was the closest point to England in France, the Germans thought that the Allies would try invading there. When news of D-Day plans got to them, the Germans sent all their forces to Dunkirk, thanks to common sense and Juan Pujol Garcia, a Spanish spy. Seriously, go read up on Juan Garcia. He's my hero.**

 **Big thank-you's to** Violet Thropp, DARKnessLIVESoN, everythingisdragons, Still A Lover Of Franchises, scottthedisaster, ABCSKW123-IX, Roxyte, **and my savior,** Eleri.

 **I'm sorry this chapter is a week late, but finals killed me this year.**

 **See you all next chapter!**


	25. Fine

"What happened last night?"

Roderich didn't bother to say anything. He thought that if he opened his mouth to reply, all of his secrets would come tumbling out. It was better to stay quiet and look rude than bear the shame of having someone else know what a failure he was.

"Fine, don't answer. I understand," Natalya said. She waited in the doorway for a moment as if she would get a response before coming into the bedroom. Why did it have to be her? "Mathias is worried about you," she continued, sitting down on the edge of Roderich's bed. "He says you didn't say anything when you came in."

Roderich picked up one of his composition books, a red one with a worn leather cover. He must have bought it before the war when he still had money to spend on silly things. Skimming through the pages, he found nothing worth keeping and put the book with the stack of other things deemed useless.

"You were lucky to leave when you did. Mathias and Lukas got into a huge fight a few minutes after you left. They both want the other to get out of the country, but Lukas won't go unless Mathias comes with him and Mathias won't go unless Lukas comes with him. I'd never heard Lukas raise his voice before," Natalya said, tracing the stitches in the bedspread with her pale finger. "I don't know if they ever agreed, though. They started speaking some northern language."

Putting a handful of letters in the worthless pile, Roderich dared a glance at Natalya. She looked nothing like the Natalya Roderich knew. The woman who was the image of Russian and Parisian elegance was no longer in a black dress with heels and vibrant red lipstick. She looked like any other housewife in her blue flowered dress, her bare feet swinging aimlessly back and forth. Instead of her usual rich self, Natalya was a tired woman who just wanted the war to be over.

"Will you talk to me?" she asked. Roderich looked away, continuing to sort out the memories of Roderich von Wolffe.

"What are you doing?" Natalya got down from the bed, coming over to where Roderich was. She knelt beside him, picking a photograph from the pile. "Is this your brother?" she said, pointing to a tiny black-and-white version of Ivan. Roderich nodded, taking the photo from her and putting it in the box of good things.

"Listen, von Wolffe, I'm trying to be nice here. It would help if you would talk to me like a damn person," Natalya snapped, grabbing another photo.

"What do you want me to say?" Roderich asked, putting a pile of letters on his desk. He knew it was wrong to talk when there was so much on his mind – he didn't want to put up with an angry Natalya.

"I would like it if you told me what happened last night and what in God's name you're doing with this," she said, gesturing to the mass of things Roderich pulled out from his desk and closet.

"To be honest, I have no idea. I think I'm picking things I don't want the Gestapo to get into," he said. "I figured Mathias could hide it for me, since they'll tear my house apart."

Natalya almost smiled, watching Roderich put a few photos in the box going with Mathias. "What happened last night, then?"

"Can I tell you a story?" Roderich said, pretending he didn't hear her. He was not answering her question. Not even the Gestapo could force it out of him.

"That's not the reply I wanted," Natalya said, her almost-smile gone.

"When I was seven, my mother went to Munich for a month to visit her family," he started as he picked up a handful of sheet music and threw it in the worthless pile. "At the house, it was my father, Ivan, and myself. One night, Ivan woke me up saying he heard noises downstairs. Somehow, I was the one to go downstairs and check for monsters. And do you know what I found?"

"It can't be anything interesting since it didn't kill you."

"My father was coming in the house through a window. I asked him what was happening, and what he told me was that if I promised to not anything about that night to my mother, he would take me into Salzburg and let me pick out whatever I wanted. I got a book about Brahms and my mother never knew what happened. While I can't take you to Vienna to buy you a bribe, you can follow my example and let secrets be secrets."

Natalya glared at him; did she really think Roderich was going to give her an answer? "I don't want to ask anything personal," she said after a long pause. "I want two things. Where are Feliks and Eduard and are you alright?"

"Feliks and Eduard are safe somewhere, I promise. And asking me about myself _is_ personal."

"No, I somewhat mean it. What's going on with you?"

"The same thing that goes on with any dying man," Roderich said, pulling his Stradivarius out from under his bed. "I'm regretting my whole life. How are you doing?"

Again, she didn't respond. Roderich looked back at the woman surrounded by his memories. She was flipping through one of the composition books, stopping every so often to look at a page. Even without the makeup and diamonds, she was beautiful. Natalya was meant to be in the arms of a rich man, not some poor Jew like Roderich.

"You didn't show me these," she said, taking another book from the worthless pile.

"They're all terrible. Don't bother reading them. They were something new I was trying and they completely failed," Roderich said, feeling his face go red. He didn't think anyone was ever going to see his experiments; he wished that no one ever would.

"They look fine to me."

"Because you don't understand music. Most people in their right mind would laugh at that."

"I played the violin for two years. I'm not completely oblivious."

Roderich almost laughed. "That's not the same thing," he said. "Music is an art that few people understand, and I don't think you're one of them."

Natalya stood up, going over to Roderich. "Listen to me, Edelstein, because I'm saying this once. This right here" – she held up the notebook – "this is the best work I've seen you do. Mozart would have killed to have a mind like yours."

"Natalya, I'm a child compared to Mozart."

"Are you looking at this?" Natalya opened the book, showing him a page. "It says at the top this is the first draft. You didn't make any mistakes or scratch out anything. This entire thing was finished in your mind."

"I suppose so. That doesn't make it good," Roderich said.

I'm sorry you were born who you are," Natalya said, closing the notebook. "If you would have been born a von Wolffe, I think you could have done so much more with what you have."

"I'm rather happy that I was born an Edelstein," Roderich said, taking the book from her and putting it with the worthless pile.

"How can you be happy? Your last name killed you."

"But if I wasn't an Edelstein, I doubt I would have ever met Francis," he said. "If I didn't meet Francis, I wouldn't have met and married Elizabeta. If I didn't marry and then divorce Elizabeta, I would have never turned to drinking and then I wouldn't have met Mathias and Lukas. And if I didn't meet Mathias and Lukas, then I wouldn't know Basch and Lilli and I certainly wouldn't have been introduced to you. You would have killed me already and returned to Russia."

Natalya shook her head. "You don't get it, do you? You could have been up there with Mozart and Beethoven. Instead, you're here with us."

"There is no place in the world I would rather be. You and Mathias and Lukas are what I have left of my family," Roderich said. "I can't abandon you."

Natalya looked down at the floor, her face tinted pink. "Don't ever repeat this or I will kill you. I am so glad I met you. Although every day with you is a living hell, I don't know what I would do without you and your stupid suicidal optimism."

"I'm afraid we finally feel the same about something, mein Herr."

"Ja, meine Frau," Natalya said with an almost-smile.

Roderich gathered up the rest of von Wolffe's life, following Natalya downstairs. Lukas was on the phone in one corner of the room and Mathias was messing with the radio in the other. They didn't seem to be anywhere as friendly as they usually were. Roderich went over to his piano, hoping he hadn't walked into another fight. Mathias perked up a bit at the sight of Roderich, a bit of the gleam coming back to his blue eyes.

" _Take up our quarrel with the foe_ ," Mathias said into the microphone, flashing Roderich a grin. " _To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high_."

"You doin' okay?" he asked one the microphone was off, slipping the headphones down around his neck. "Oh, Lukas, the number is 88.3," he said without looking at the man. "Code word is villa."

"I'm fine," Roderich said. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm great." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a train ticket. His eyes flicked towards Lukas – Roderich was almost positive Lukas had a ticket for Mathias as well. "What've you got with you?"

"Some things I want you to hide for me. I don't want the Gestapo anywhere near my Stradivarius," he said, putting the violin and the box down on the coffee table.

"Ja, I can find some place to hide 'em. I can't guarantee the Gestapo won't find it, though." Mathias looked back at Lukas, who was doing the math for code villa on the blank side of a page of sheet music. Francis was much better at math codes – thankfully, Lukas managed. Lukas held up the paper, pointing to the 103.5 scrawled at the bottom. Mathias nodded in reply, switching the radio to the right channel.

" _You are blind like us,"_ Mathias said once he was sure he found the channel. "Ja, we're ready. Natalya, what are we waiting on?"

"Francis says there was a lot of German activity at one of the beaches, and they're waiting on a scout. Other than that, everywhere else is clear," Lukas answered for her.

"Wait, Francis says the scout is back," Natalya said. "We can start."

"Alpha, everything is good to go here," Mathias relayed to the British commander. "Switch to 105.2 to confirm. Code word is farewell."

"I hate farewell," Lukas muttered as he started to scribble numbers onto the page. "There's too much division in that one."

"That's ironic, picking farewell to be our last code. I bet London got a kick out of that one," Mathias said. "I'm happy they're taking our deaths as jokes. Makes me feel real important for once."

"Shut up and switch to 94.5," Lukas said, crumpling up the ruined page.

The room got quiet once more as Mathias switched to the final channel. They agreed to be silent during the actual performance – partially out of respect for Roderich but more out of fear that their voices could lead someone to them. The last thing they needed was a Gestapo agent showing up in the middle of everything.

Roderich couldn't bear to look at anyone else, keeping his eyes on his music. It took him four years to write the piece, and yet it only took seven minutes to play. So many hours of his life were spent making up the music for his final performance. While it was nothing like he'd imagined it to be, it was everything he wanted it to be. For once, Roderich didn't want to change anything. Everything fell into place perfectly.

"We're ready," Mathias whispered.

Somewhere in the English Channel, Eisenhower's men were waiting to hear piano music. On the beaches of Dunkirk, German soldiers were patiently waiting to hear music, the music they'd been told would signal an attack that would never happen. The resistance movements scattered across Europe were waiting for the signal to start the biggest assault on the Thousand Year Reich yet.

In that moment, Roderich was in control of everything. He was the keystone of the first steps towards the Allies winning the war. And while he was not performing on stage, he was doing so much more than standing before a crowd.

Without any hesitation, Roderich von Wolffe's final piece started.

* * *

Ivan hid himself for the last time.

He stood in front of the cracked mirror, smoothing out his Red Army uniform. In uniform, he looked less like a criminal and more like a regular man. If he ignored the bandages around his forehead and the bruises, Ivan could almost mistake himself for someone else. His reflection was a regular soldier, a colonel with a family waiting in Moscow for his return.

Ivan liked hiding under the image of the military. The rough military standard fabric covered up his criminal record and troubled past. Out of uniform, Ivan was a wanted criminal with three registered homicides. He was a conman and a petty thief. However, when he put on the tan dress uniform, he was an officer that fought for Russia and freedom and whatever other propaganda the government was forcing on the Russian people. The uniform gave him a significance, one he didn't have before.

"You look fine," Arthur assured him after watching Ivan fuss with his tie for the third time. "Well, as good as you can look in your sorry state."

"Thank you, I think." Ivan turned to face the Brit, giving him a slight grin. "You're going to make a good man of confidence," he said. "Better than me. I haven't had any confidence put in me for a long time."

"You were absent for three years. And that wasn't your fault."

"It was my fault. And besides, you're much more likable than I am. That already makes you better than me."

Arthur jumped down from the top bunk, coming over to Ivan. "I don't want to be better than you," he said. "It'll feel wrong to be in your position. You've been the highest-ranking officer for so long. Even when you were out working, you were our leader. For me to be in your place just seems wrong."

"You will be fine," Ivan said. "It isn't that difficult to be the senior POW. Of course, I've been on break for three years. The rules might have changed a bit."

"What will we do without you, Braginsky?" Arthur asked.

"I'm sure you'll move on. I'm only a colonel. Nothing too terribly important." Ivan tried to laugh but ended up clutching his side and cursing. So much for humor.

"Don't hurt yourself," Arthur said. He was the sole person to see the broken ribs and the bandages circling Ivan's arms. Ivan broke down and told him everything the night before, from the first war plant he worked in to yesterday's "accident." Arthur alone knew that the accident was a cover up for a German guard beating Ivan for not working.

"I'm fine," Ivan said. "Just a bit sore. I'll be alright."

"I can't have you die before roll call or the commandant will strangle me," Arthur said. "Please, try to refrain from dying for five more minutes."

"I'll keep that in mind. Would you go get Toris for me? I have to tell him something before…" Ivan trailed off, replacing his words with a smile. Arthur understood, hurrying out of the office into the main room. The open door let in the conversations from outside – Ivan picked up that there was a prisoner transfer, someone's girlfriend broke up with them via mail, and there was a staff car that pulled into camp.

Ivan eased himself into the chair at his desk, gathering up the papers he'd written in a frenzy when Arthur fell asleep. The frantic German was tangled and scratched out and not spelled how it should have been, hopefully, the message was clear.

"You wanted to see me."

Ivan nodded, mumbling a come-in. He heard the office door close, the morning roll call commotion muffled once more.

"I'm not going to pity you, if that's what you want," Toris said without a hint of emotion in his words. Ivan didn't need to look at him to see how angry he was. "And I'm not going to humiliate myself either."

"I wasn't asking for humili-"

"Oh, really? Because every other time I've been in this office, you've shamed me to the point of making me feel worthless. Tell me, would you like to abuse me verbally or physically? I've got five minutes and I need to patch up Raivis' shirt."

"I don't want to hurt you!" Ivan immediately regretted shouting, his hands going to his side. He thought he heard Toris laugh – no, he couldn't have. Toris was too compassionate to laugh at a dying man.

"Playing victim again, are we? Because you are _so_ dreadfully hurt," Toris said, his voice sharp. "I was right. You're asking for pity."

Ivan looked over at Toris, tears in his indigo eyes. Toris was stone cold, his arms folded over his chest and mouth drawn into a thin line. This was not the Toris Ivan knew. His Toris was gentle and anxious and concerned for everyone's sake. The person before him wouldn't have cared less if Ivan died right there.

"Well?" Toris tapped his foot impatiently. "You're wasting my time, colonel."

Ivan started asking himself if he should go through with the plan; Toris wasn't as cooperative as he imagined. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm sorry you think of me like this. I know in the past I've been a monster –"

"That's quite an understatement."

"I'm not like that, Toris. I have no interest in you or your body today. This is for someone else's good. I do understand if you want to leave, though," Ivan said. "If you don't want to help me, you can leave. I won't be angry."

"No, I'll hear you out. Tell me, colonel, what sort of hell would you like to put me through?" Toris asked, his voice getting higher. Ivan saw him put his hand on the doorknob; he wasn't as brave as he was trying to be.

"I need you to get something out of this camp for me. Please, that's all I ask of you." Ivan picked up the handful of papers, pulling himself up. Toris shrank back when Ivan stood up, pressing himself against the wall. His defiance from before was gone, fear taking over.

"What's the catch?" Toris took the papers from his hands, looking through them. "Do you want me to come to your room tonight or would you rather force yourself on me now?"

"Those are plans for the V-1 launches. I want you to get them out of camp and to the Underground. From there, have someone take them to England or France or wherever someone is willing to fight. I don't care," Ivan said. "They need to be in Allied hands."

Toris' hands started shaking and he put the papers down. "How do you know so much about them?" he asked. "The commandant doesn't have a clue what they are, and you have the plans down to the exact model numbers. That isn't suspicious to you?"

"Toris," Ivan said gently, "What do you think I was making at the factory?"

"You w-w-were making what?" There was the stutter that Ivan loved. Toris snatched up the papers, looking over the first one. "No, th-th-this isn't right. This says they're go-go-going to England. 'M-M-Mass civilian destruction'?" he read aloud, his eyes returning to Ivan. "This is s-s-some joke, isn't it?" he said, his hands trembling worse than before. "You've done it, Ivan, y-y-you have me stuttering. Are you happy?!"

Ivan carefully reached out, putting his hand on Toris' arm. Toris did not shove him away or shout; a huge improvement from the last time they spoke. "This is very serious, Toris. Do you see why this has to get to out of here?"

Toris didn't reply. He kept reading through the papers, each one making him more nervous. Ivan backed away, letting the reality of the V-1 sink in.

"What did they do?" Toris whispered. "Oh, my God, what did they have you do?"

"I was not given all the plans at once. They gave me page by page as I worked so I could not see the end product. By the time I figured it out, it was too late. I destroyed the one I made. That isn't enough. There are eleven others going to France for the tests."

"You're trusting me with this?"

"I've always trusted you," Ivan said. "And I hope you can do the same for me."

Toris stood for a moment in silence, thinking over his choices. "I'll do it," he said as he tucked the papers into his jacket. "After roll call, I'll take them to Sadik. He's going into Wolfsberg today on a work detail."

"Thank you." Ivan went back to his desk, resisting the urge to try repairing things with Toris before it was too late. He did what needed to be done. There was no time for healing. "You can leave."

"This isn't like you," Toris said, coming over to the desk. So he _was_ concerned. Or perhaps he was there to rub in the pain.

Ivan nodded; he wasn't naïve enough to let Toris see through him. "I'm tired and a little sore from yesterday. Nothing too bad. Please, do not worry about me."

"If you don't mind me asking, what did they do to you? Raivis told me you were bleeding pretty badly yesterday."

"Head wounds bleed worse. It was only a small gash. Really, I'm fine. I heard there was a transfer today," Ivan said, trying to change the subject before he gave in and told Toris everything. "Who is it?"

Toris thankfully picked up on what Ivan was doing. "Two new prisoners straight from the Gestapo. A captain and a junior lieutenant. Raivis saw them when they came in last night. He says they're both blond and one of them looks just like Eduard. Not that it would be Eduard."

Before Ivan could think of a reply, he heard the sergeant-of-the-guard start shouting for roll call.

* * *

 _Captain von Bock, Eduard; serial number 109793._

"At 6:30 this morning, the Allies made a bold attack on the beaches of Normandy…"

 _Second Lieutenant Łukasiewicz, Feliks; serial number 110873._

"Losses on both sides are expected to be high."

Gilbert reached over and shut off the radio; he didn't understand half the things the BBC reporter said anyway. And from what he did translate, today was not a good day for Hitler or the Reich. They were officially losing the war. It was only a matter of time until the Allies marched into Berlin and took over. At least when the Allies had the Reich in their hands, Gilbert wouldn't have to fill out so much paperwork for something as simple as a prisoner transfer.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Gilbert signed his name on the last of the transfer papers. All night he'd been with the Gestapo, helping them pull up records and interrogate the two captives. There was a death record for Eduard – well, not much of one. It was his name in a clump of other names labeled "dead". Feliks had a baptism record from a church in rural Poland and a Gestapo record that claimed he went missing and presumably died in 1938.

The man pretending to be Eduard did a stellar impression of him during the interrogations; he even carried a tiny stag carving with him, like the ones Toris made. If Gilbert wasn't so sure Eduard died in Serbia years ago, he would have believed everything the impostor said. And the kid playing Feliks told Gilbert everything about Toris, his stories matching up with Toris'.

But the records said the two of them were dead.

And Nazi records rarely lied.

Gilbert grabbed an envelope, shoving the transfer requests inside. With any luck, the commandant of Stalag 306 would take in the two impersonators and Gilbert would never have to deal with them again. However, knowing the irritating little man who ran the camp, Gilbert wasn't going to hear the end of the transfer for a long time. He would have to keep pushing the two prisoners around until they became someone else's problems.

"Herr Commandant?" a guard called from outside his door. "It is time for roll call. What would you like me to do with the Russian?"

Gilbert looked at the clock on the edge of his desk – he thought it was two a.m. a few minutes ago. How did seven sneak up on him so fast? "Have him stand with the rest of Barracks Two for now," he replied, putting a stamp on the envelope and sealing it. "I'll take him out later."

"…Herr Commandant, you may want to reconsider that."

"Heidrich, I'm tired. I don't have it in me to kill a man at the moment," Gilbert said. He was too worn out to think about murder.

"The man the factory sent to record the Russian's death is here. And he isn't happy looking," the sergeant added.

"Tell him I'll be out in a minute, I have to do one thing," Gilbert said, getting up from his desk. He heard Heidrich complain again and ignored it. However pushy the factory's man was, Heidrich would have to tough it out for Gilbert's sake.

Gilbert went to his personal quarters, trying to remember where he'd put the lethal injection the night before. _That probably wasn't a good thing to lose,_ Gilbert said to himself as he searched through the stacks of papers on the coffee table. He pushed a folder full of paperwork aside, sending a pile of papers off the edge of the table and onto the floor.

"Of course," he muttered as he picked up the papers – they were the prisoner records Elizabeta alphabetized the night before. She spent hours sorting them out for him, and he'd destroyed her work in a matter of seconds. Was anything going to go right for him that morning? Gilbert snatched up another handful of papers, hoping to find some sort of order to them.

Instead, he found something else.

Gilbert snatched up the tie pin laying among the records. He didn't own a swastika pin like that one. The pin gave off a Gestapo-esque feel with its bold swastika and the gold lettering around the red band.

"Elizabeta?" Gilbert called out, turning the pin over. There were smudged letters engraved into the back, barely recognizable. He could make out an R and an E, but the last letter was unreadable. "Hey, Elizabeta, did the Gestapo come here last night?"

He didn't hear a reply. Gilbert went into the bedroom, figuring she was still asleep. And sure enough, she was curled up beneath the sheets. He would ask her about the pin later; he needed to get his gun and get out to roll call before someone decided to kill him.

Rummaging through his dresser, he found his pistol with the silencer. Surely Ivan wouldn't mind being shot in the head. After all, he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"I'll see you later," Gilbert said, going over to Elizabeta. She looked up at him, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, too stunned to say anything better. "What happened?"

"Stop playing dumb. You know what happened," Elizabeta said in a shaking voice. Gilbert didn't think he had ever seen her cry before. He didn't like it at all – it made him feel he was the one who'd done wrong. "Go on," she said. "Say it. Go ahead and yell at me while I'm already crying. Isn't that what you came here to do?"

Gilbert shook his head, putting the pistol down on the nightstand. "I came here for my gun. What happened? You're starting to scare me."

"Don't do this to me, Gilbert. Please, don't do this to me."

"I don't know what I'm doing to begin with. Does it have to do with this?" Gilbert asked, pulling the swastika pin from his pocket. Elizabeta nodded and buried her face in her pillow.

"Whatever you're doing, stop it. I don't want to play some sick game with you."

"This isn't a game. Do we know an R.E.? I can't remember anyone with those initials," Gilbert said, rolling the pin over in his hand. He tapped the spike with his thumb, going through his list of contacts in his mind.

Then it hit him.

"Roderich Erwin von Wolffe," he said slowly.

Elizabeta gasped, looking up at Gilbert. "There, you've said it! Are you happy now? Go ahead and call your brother!" she screamed, her voice shaking. "Just get out of here!"

Gilbert left the bedroom, his hand clenched tight around the gun. He threw the pin down, kicking it away from him. Forcing himself into a vague sort of composure, Gilbert slammed the door open and walked out to roll call. The guard tried to introduce the man from the factory to him, but Gilbert kept walking. He didn't stop until he was in front of Ivan.

"Someone came into this camp while I was gone last night," Gilbert said, looking up at Ivan. It took every bit of his willpower not to punch the man right there.

"You left last night?" Ivan asked. "I had no idea. Most of us sleep during the night, Herr Commandant."

"Oh, of course," Gilbert said with pure malice in his voice. "Of course you know _nothing_. Well, thankfully, our guest left something here. A swastika pin. And not any swastika pin. It appears to be made of real gold, and there are initials on the back. RVW. Do I know an RVW?"

Ivan's face paled. "Sir, I…" he faltered, trying to come up with one of his lies. Gilbert wasn't going to give him the chance.

"Why was Roderich von Wolffe here?!" Gilbert asked the twenty men. Barracks Two went quiet for once. They looked down at the dirt or away from Gilbert, afraid to meet his red eyes. "Someone here has to have at least an idea of why that bastard would dare to show his face here!"

"...No? No answers?" Gilbert paused, waiting for someone to speak up. "Alright, then, have it your way." He grabbed Ivan, dragging him out in front of the crowd. With a swift kick behind his leg, Gilbert got Ivan on his knees. In an instant, he cocked the pistol and put it up to Ivan's head.

"Herr Commandant, please –" Ivan started, twisting back to look at Gilbert.

"No, no pleases," Gilbert interrupted as he forced Ivan to look at the men of Barracks Two. "Someone tell me why von Wolffe was here and I'll let Ivan go. If not, we're having a funeral."

No one spoke up.

" _Fünf,"_ Gilbert said, locking eyes with Toris. He started trembling, unable to look away from the colonel.

" _Vier."_

He saw Raivis reach out for Toris' hand.

" _Drei."_

Raivis whispered something to Toris in a language Gilbert didn't understand – he still knew what the boy was saying.

" _Zwei."_

Gilbert waited for a moment, giving the men a final chance. There wasn't so much as a sound from the scared group.

" _Eine_ ," Gilbert said smoothly, curling his finger over the trigger.

" _Wait!"_ Toris took a step forward, ignoring Raivis' shaky protests. "Don't sh-sh-shoot. I'll talk."

"Toris, don't," Ivan begged – exactly what Gilbert wanted to hear.

Gilbert kicked him in reply. "Let the kid speak. So, Toris, what do you have to tell me about Herr von Wolffe?"

"Don't do this," Ivan said. "Please, don't do this. I'm going to die anyway. Let him kill me!"

"If I t-t-talk, you have to promise me y-y-you won't hurt Ivan or anyone e-e-else," Toris said, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. Gilbert wouldn't be surprised if he started crying. "Look me right in the eyes and promise me."

"I promise I won't hurt Ivan or anyone else."

"Swear on your l-l-life."

Gilbert smiled, pushing the pistol closer to Ivan's skull. "I swear on my life. However, if I feel like you're taking too much time, I'll be happy to revoke my promise."

"Toris, listen to me," Ivan said. "I am supposed to die today. The colonel isn't going to keep his word. Please, don't say anything."

Toris took a shaky breath, closing his eyes so he couldn't see Ivan.

"Roderich von Wolffe…His last name is Edelstein and he's Jewish."

There was a pause that followed; it felt like a year. Gilbert watched tears roll down Toris' face and heard him whispering an apology. To whom, Gilbert would never know.

"You…You didn't?" Ivan stammered, looking up at Toris. "No. We had a promise. And I cannot break that promise."

"Ivan, I –"

" _Toris!"_ Ivan snarled, lunging forward to grab the man.

A muffled gunshot tore through the silence of the compound.

Ivan hit the ground, a blossom of red spreading out over the dirt at Toris' feet.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Laurinaitis," Gilbert said. "I'm a liar. Now, you and the rest of this camp will be put under confinement. Heidrich," he snapped. The guard came to his side, looking as mortified as the prisoners. "Get my brother on the phone and arrange for something to be done with Colonel Braginsky here," he said as he gave Ivan's body a soft kick.

With one more grin towards the shell-shocked Toris, Gilbert turned on his heels and marched off to end Roderich Edelstein's story.

* * *

Very little was making sense to Ludwig Beilschmidt on the morning of June 6th.

The Allies made a successful landing in France, Hochstetter was working without complaints, Roderich von Wolffe got married, and Gilbert called to tell Ludwig that Roderich von Wolffe was not a von Wolffe.

Ludwig hung up the phone, forcing his brother's frantic rambling from his thoughts. He hadn't heard Gilbert that excited in years. For an hour and a half, Gilbert ranted nonstop about how he forced the information out of Ivan and Toris and how Ludwig was wrong. He must have told Ludwig how wrong he was at least a hundred times.

And each time Gilbert reminded him that he was the mistaken one, Ludwig felt the tiny seed of anger in him grow bigger and bigger. He had trusted Roderich. He told that man more than he told his dog. Roderich knew everything about Ludwig, and Ludwig thought he knew everything about Roderich.

Clearly, he was _wrong._

"I should have arrested him the first day I met him," Ludwig growled, running his hands through his hair. "How could I have been so blind?! Good God, the man looks Jewish to begin with! And I let him slip away! The Führer let him slip away!"

What was there for Ludwig to do? The arrest of the century, the arrest that so many people were waiting for slipped through his fingers. Roderich was already in Free France with his girlfriend or wife or Underground agent. Hunting him down would be a nightmarish waste of time. Roderich changed his name once – he probably did it again.

Ludwig picked up the book he'd been reading before Gilbert called, throwing it at the wall. He wasted his entire Gestapo career on one man. One filthy, disgusting, lying _Untermensch._ Five years of his life were spent pulling up birth records and pictures and tearing apart Roderich's perfect story sentence by sentence until he drove himself insane.

And this was how he was thanked for it?

"Do you want to explain why you're throwing things?" Hochstetter asked from outside the door. "Are we starting another fight? I'd like it if you'd give me a bit of notice before these things."

"It's over, Hochstetter! It's all over!" Ludwig got up, ripping the pictures from the wall where he pinned up anything they found about Roderich and his entourage.

"So, either your girlfriend that you don't have broke up with you or you're extremely angry with me," Hochstetter said, coming into the room. Ludwig didn't dare to look at him, tearing the photographs into smaller and smaller pieces.

"Are you okay?" Hochstetter walked over to Ludwig, watching him tear up the pictures. "What's your problem today, kid?"

"Gilbert called. He said he has proof that Roderich's a Jew," Ludwig snapped. "Actual proof. And Roderich's already out of the country! Even if we wanted to hunt him down, it would take too damn long."

Hochstetter nodded, putting his hand on Ludwig's arm. "I have something to tell you, however, you need to calm down before I talk."

"I'm not a child!"

"That's not calming down," Hochstetter said, taking the pieces of the photographs from Ludwig's hands and throwing them in the trash. "Are you prepared to hear this or do I need to wait for a few more minutes while you get yourself together?"

Ludwig took a deep breath, trying not to kill Hochstetter right there. "Alright, tell me."

"Roderich was here in Vienna a few hours ago. The radio department has proof."

Ludwig didn't bother to listen to the rest of what Hochstetter had to say. He marched off for the radio department, his thoughts choked out by rage. There was a lone man in the room where the audio records were kept, half-asleep and not at all interested in Ludwig's presence.

"I want to hear the tapes you have on von Wolffe from this morning," Ludwig barked. The man mumbled a curse, grabbing a tape from his desk and putting it into the reel-to-reel.

Music started playing over the scratchy speakers. Ludwig almost mistook it for Beethoven or Mozart or some other dead composer; everything sounded the same to him. He waited to hear Roderich's sickening voice, but all he heard was the same note played over and over.

Morse code.

He didn't remember the exact words to the message Hochstetter spelled out for him a few weeks ago. He did remember that Roderich put Morse code into his latest piece. And as the music kept going, Ludwig started to recognize the different melodies. He heard the first one that Roderich played in the bomb shelter, the swing piece he hated so much, the opera he wrote in 1941, the requiem he made shortly after his father's death, and the last piece he performed for Hitler.

It was undeniably Roderich von Wolffe's music. Ludwig had heard each of the individual pieces. He wrote one of them for Roderich when the man was sick, Roderich telling him what notes to write and Ludwig trying to place them on the lines. Ludwig even had a copy of one of the concertos at his house, one that Roderich made for him.

"Wait, is this Morse?" the man running the radio department asked, looking over at Ludwig. "I didn't hear this earlier."

"What is it saying?" Ludwig said.

" _Francis Bonnefoy_ ," the man said. " _Natalya Arlovskya_. _Mathias Andersen. Lukas Bondevik. Eduard von Bock._ _Feliks Lukasiewicz. Lilli Zwingli. Basch Zwingli. Roderich Edelstein._

 _"Es lebe die Engel."_

"Thank you, that's all I need to hear," Ludwig said in a surprisingly calm voice, walking out of the room. Hochstetter was there to greet him, his smile somehow not annoying anymore.

"So, what are you going to destroy next?" Hochstetter asked, giving Ludwig a slap on his back. "C'mon, make a scene! I'm dying for some excitement around here."

"I have to go home to get something," Ludwig said as he pushed past the man.

Ludwig wasn't mad as he walked home. He wasn't angry, but he wasn't anywhere near happy. He was more content than anything, strangely okay with the world and everything that was thrown his way that morning.

When he got to his house, Berlitz was waiting by the door for him. Ludwig mumbled a sort of hello to the old dog, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. Berlitz started whining, realizing that Ludwig wasn't home to stay.

"I'll be back, you big baby," he said, kneeling down and ruffling the dog's snowy fur. Berlitz whimpered once more, licking at his face. "What," Ludwig asked, "Do you think I'd leave you here forever?"

Ludwig gave Berlitz a parting scratch behind the ear and went out to his car. He pulled the Mercedes out of the driveway, turning left instead of right to go back to Gestapo Headquarters. In a little less than a minute, he was in front of the familiar house. Ludwig killed the engine, got out of the car, and went right up to the door.

He didn't bother knocking before twisting the doorknob. It was unlocked – Roderich never left the door unlocked for fear of murderers.

"Roderich?" Ludwig called as he stepped inside. He turned the corner to go into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.

The man that wasted Ludwig's life was sitting at his kitchen table, sobbing. There was a cup of either tea or whiskey next to him and one white pill laying on the table.

"I can't do it," Roderich choked, looking up at Ludwig with a tearstained face. "I can't kill myself."

* * *

The evening of June 7th was wonderfully quiet. Roderich closed his eyes, listening to the soft drum of the engine. It was like a lullaby to him, pulling him closer to sleep. He missed sleeping.

The car hit a bump in the road, and the sharp pain all over Roderich sprung to life. He gasped, clutching his bruised or broken or possibly both ribs. The cuts running across his chest cried out in agony and the bruise under his eye started throbbing. The taste of blood returned to his mouth. So much for a peaceful evening.

Before long, Roderich was back to being semi-conscious. He couldn't remember ever being this tired, this hurt in his life. Of course, he had a long life to look through. Perhaps he was forgetting an incident with his father.

No, he couldn't have forgotten a pain like this one.

He was brought out of his almost-sleep by a sharp slap to the face. When he didn't immediately move, a hand grabbed him and dragged him out of the car. Roderich found himself on the grass, a rock poking into his back.

"Stand up," a voice ordered, the same hand pulling Roderich to his feet. Roderich managed to stand up on his own, rubbing his eyes with his bloodied palm.

"Oh, it's you," he said when his vision cleared up again. "I was starting to think I was dreaming."

Ludwig was not in a laughing mood – just like the day before when he punched Roderich for so much as looking the wrong way. "I am required to give you a choice," he said with no inflection. "Would you like me to shoot you or do you want to take cyanide?"

"I've never been shot before," Roderich said. "I'd like to try something new."

"You have a good sense of humor for a filthy Jew." Ludwig took the pistol out of its holster, cocking it and holding it up to Roderich's head.

"Shame you're shooting me with a Luger. I'd like a classier gun. Basch could have given you this great pistol. It was ivory and gold and had a beautiful eagle carved into –"

Roderich was interrupted by another slap to the face. His weak legs gave out and he clung to Ludwig's uniform in a sad attempt at keeping himself upright. Ludwig kicked Roderich away, sending him down to the dirt.

"Don't touch me, you animal," Ludwig said, his voice not as strong as before. Did something change? "Stay in the dirt where you belong."

"Gladly," Roderich replied; he wasn't being sarcastic. Anything was better than standing at that point, even laying in the dirt beneath Ludwig.

"Do you have any last words?"

Roderich looked up at Ludwig. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Ludwig. I think in a different time, we could have been friends. And I'm sorry I had to lie to you for so long. I'm sure you understand that I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Don't talk to me like we were friends," Ludwig said. "You were a mere tool to me."

"I was a happy tool with you, if that means anything."

"No, it doesn't."

"Oh, well. That's the way life is. Would you hurry up and get this over with? I don't imagine it will be painless," Roderich said with a smile. "And I'm dying to stop hurting."

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "Was that a joke?"

"I bet you've never shot a man who was smiling."

"I haven't shot a man to begin with."

"Good, good. I'll be a wonderful practice round for you," Roderich said. "And then you can go kill some other Jews for doing nothing! You can shoot every single one of them until you feel content with your disgusting Nazi ideals. I'm sure Hitler will give you an Iron Cross for that."

Ludwig aimed the gun at Roderich's head, his lips curled into a snarl. Roderich screwed his eyes shut, praying that it would end fast.

He waited for the gunshot.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, he dared to open his eyes again. Ludwig was still aiming right for his head; his hands were shaking so badly he wouldn't have hit Roderich.

"You can't shoot me," Roderich said. "You cannot shoot me to save your life."

"Yes, I can!" Ludwig acted like he was going to pull the trigger, stopping short.

"What's the matter?" Roderich pushed himself up, standing upright to be eye-to-eye with Ludwig. "Why can't you kill a worthless Jew like me?"

Ludwig swallowed hard. "I trusted you, Roderich. I trusted you with so much."

"And I trusted you, believe it or not," Roderich said. "I trusted you with almost everything, save for my religion and the huge resistance movement I was running."

"I called a Jew my friend," Ludwig said in disbelief. "You were the one person I had here in Vienna."

"You were the one sane person I had. Why don't you put the gun down now? You're not going to be shooting me anytime soon."

"I'm not an idiot."

"I didn't think about that," Roderich said. "Sorry. I wasn't planning to attack you, anyway. I don't have it in me. So, how about you and I run away?"

Ludwig almost dropped the gun, keeping his trembling aim at Roderich's head. "What do you mean?"

"I have a free pass to Switzerland through a friend. I'll take you with me. From there we can go our separate ways and forget this Jew incident happened," Roderich said, although he wasn't sure why he was saying it. He was bargaining for time, pleading for a few final minutes.

"You're a Jew. The Jews must be eradicated. I'm not running away to Switzerland with you, you swine."

"So much for friendship," Roderich muttered, holding out his hand. "Well, then, let's end this civilly. It's been a pleasure knowing you, _Kriminaldirektor_ Beilschmidt."

Ludwig took his hand. "I would say the same to you –"

He stopped short, looking down at Roderich's hand. Roderich took his hand away and held it up. The wedding ring's spike was sticking out, the tip stained red. Ludwig's face went white as he put together the pieces.

"Long live Jewish ingenuity," Roderich said with a grin.

There was a loud crack, a gentle tug in Roderich's chest, and then it went dark.

The final note in the symphony of Roderich Edelstein faded away.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you's go out to** ABCSKW123-IX **,** Guest **,** Killer Memestar **,** Fryingpangirl **,** EllaAwkward **,** HetaRosGirl **,** browsofglory **,** BetterThanLove **,** Celeste Everwhite **, and everyone who stuck with me through this. This chapter is for** Swing-Stole-My-Heart **,** **my wonderful support system.**

 **Please review.  
**

 **I hope to see you all next chapter.**


	26. DS al Coda

_Sie sind frei._

Basch opened his eyes, looking around the barrack. No one was awake yet. The Spaniard next to Basch was still sound asleep, and he spoke little German. In fact, the nearest person who spoke fluent German was two bunks down, too far away for Basch to hear. He swore the voice was right next to him. And he recognized the voice.

 _You're free._

"Antonio," he whispered, giving the man next to him a nudge. "Antonio, this is serious."

Antonio slowly opened one eye. " _No, mi perrito_. Sleep," he mumbled, turning away from Basch.

"No sleep. Did you hear that voice?"

"In your head, _perrito._ Sleep."

Basch sighed, giving the man another nudge. "The voice said we were free. Um… _Libros_? _Libera_?"

"Books?" Antonio looked back at him. "You readin'?"

"No, no. Freedom. Liberty. Not prison," Basch said, searching his mind for the Spanish word. Antonio didn't teach him "freedom", because he thought they would never be freed. Both expected to die in the camp. What was the point in learning a word he wouldn't use?

" _Libre_?" Antonio said, his face lighting up.

"Ja, ja! _Libre_ , or whatever. The voice said that we were free."

Antonio shook his head. " _No, mi perrito. No libre_." And with that, he was done listening to Basch.

Basch groaned, wishing he spoke Spanish. The language barrier was an ugly thing that kept him from being understood by most of his work group. While Italian was similar, there were lots of words that didn't translate and earned him strange looks.

Perhaps Antonio was right, though. The voice could have just been in Basch's head, which would explain why he recognized it. People heard voices all the time in the camp. However, they were usually the people who were dying or being tortured. Basch didn't feel like he was dying, not yet. And he was almost positive no one was torturing him more than usual.

But there was a nagging feeling inside Basch, an urge telling him to listen to the voice. Something felt different with the world.

He sat up, starting the slow climb down to the floor. Several people gave him angry looks – not that he cared anymore. Basch reached the dirty floor, walking down the thin line of space between the bunks to the door. As he went, he heard people start calling him by his nicknames. _Perrito, Ladrón, Schweizer,_ they used everything to try and stop him. Hands reached out, grabbing at his clothes and his arms. Every time he pried himself free, continuing to the door.

"He's going to get killed," a German voice said.

"Fine, let him. It's not our fault if some kid is suicidal," another replied. "Let him die."

"He'll get our whole barrack in trouble. Remember what happened to 20?"

Basch went up to the door, giving it a gentle push. He braced himself for the gunshot, for a _kapo_ to drag him out into the yard and beat him to death. He was met with nothing more than early morning silence.

He pushed open the door a bit more, listening to the swirl of voices behind him. So many different languages were being spoken, and yet everything was about the man who was brave enough to open the door.

Taking a deep breath, Basch pushed the door completely open.

 _Sie sind frei._

He heard the familiar voice in his ear again as he took a step outside. Basch looked up at the guard towers, wondering why the searchlights had been turned off. There were no guards in the towers. He looked down the row of barracks. There were no black uniformed men, no guns, no blood, no death. He looked over at the gate. Not one person stood guard in front of the Mauthausen gates.

Basch took another step, waiting for the gunshot or the sirens. Was this another one of the commandant's sick games, a way to lure prisoners into their deaths? Part of Basch wanted it to be the end, so he could let death take him away from it all. And yet, the other part of him wanted the voice to be right.

"There's no one out here!" Basch shouted into the barracks, in case anyone was brave enough to join him. Sure enough, Antonio appeared a second later, his green eyes scanning the huge yard.

"Trap," Antonio said unsurely, coming out to where Basch was. A few barracks down, someone else opened a door. Before long, more prisoners were filing out into the yard, looking around for machine guns or a SS man.

Basch shook his head. "Safe, I think." He took another glance over the yard. Seeing no guns, he started walking towards the gate.

" _Ay, mi perrito_ ," Antonio groaned, running after him. "No. No gate."

"Yes. I've got to try, at least. Even if I do die."

"Stupid. Stupid kid."

It took Basch forever to get to the gate – he hadn't ever had reason to walk there before, so he didn't realize how far away it was. Other prisoners were walking to the gate with him, curious to see if they would meet their deaths or if they really were free. Basch heard Antonio say at least forty Spanish prayers in the time it took him to get to the gate.

A crowd of people gathered around him, wondering if the kid was so mad that he would open the gate. But Basch didn't need to. The gate was already open, just a sliver. Enough for an emaciated person to slip through.

"Go back, yes?" Antonio asked, pulling on Basch's arm. "No more."

"No, we've got to try. Who wants to go first?" Basch asked, turning to the crowd behind him. A few people stepped forward, Spaniards and Russians and Germans. He recognized someone from the International Committee, one of the people who was supposed to be running the camp.

Antonio came to Basch's side. "You are mad, _mi perrito_."

"It's a good sort of mad, isn't it?"

Basch slipped through the gates of Mauthausen.

He was met with guns. And men in uniform. Lots of men in uniform. Basch took a step forward, putting on a smile even though he was half-dead. The men in uniform lowered their guns. Basch stood in the clearing for a long time, taking in everything. He'd taken his first free steps. He was no longer going to die in a prison camp. He would never have to climb the stairs of death again.

In the middle of those overwhelming things, Basch heard music. It didn't sound like swing or foxtrots or whatever was popular. The music was classical, like something he would hear in a symphony hall. Basch thought he knew the piece – was it Mozart or Beethoven?

And all at once, everything hit him.

The voice he heard earlier, the one he recognized, belonged to Roderich.

The music was the first piece ever played for Operation Edelweiss, on that Christmas of 1941.

Someone turned the radio off, and the music stopped. A soldier stepped out from the crowd of soldiers, coming up to Basch. On his arm was a band with a red cross. Like the inverted flag of Basch's home country.

" _Sprechen Sie Englisch_?" the soldier asked in a soft voice.

"Absolutely. What would you like to talk about?" Basch said, trying not to laugh. He was having a real conversation, a conversation that wasn't about food or death.

"Are you hurt?"

Basch held up his hands, showing off his bloody palms. Deep cuts crisscrossed over his skin, dried blood painting his palms rust red. "I carried stone blocks up 184 steps every day for the past five months. The people behind me have been here for years."

"How did you know to come out?" a voice called from the crowd, a young looking major shoving his way to the front. "We were about to come in there."

"Roderich Edelstein told me," Basch said. "I heard his voice this morning."

"Oh, God, he's delusional," another American said.

"I am completely delusional!" Basch said. "I walked out of hell. You'd be insane, too, sir, if you saw half the shit I saw in there."

The medic in front of Basch gave him something akin to a smile. "You're probably tired, ain't you? We'll take you and your people to a field hospital we got a few miles away. Give you a uniform and somethin' to eat. You people look like skeletons."

Basch didn't remember much after that. The rest of the day was a mess of hospitals and questions and Americans who spoke in broken German. Somewhere during the day, he lost Antonio and didn't ever see him again. The Americans took him to a different hospital or maybe just a different room, telling him there was something wrong with his pulse. There were lots of shouts and angry voices. People kept asking him questions, holding his thin hands, and pleading for him to talk about his sister or his mother.

His last memory of the day he was liberated was a medic begging him to stay awake and Roderich's music playing in his mind.

* * *

 **July 24** **th** **, 1946**

For the last time, Raivis pulled himself out of Hell.

To an outsider, the steel mill wasn't a bad place. Upstairs, everyone worked in quiet tandem, exactly how the communists wanted. If someone did speak, it was in perfect, accent-free Russian. The floors where they made the slabs of dull steel looked like the idyllic factories in the propaganda films.

Beneath the perfection was Hell, where Raivis happened to work.

The proper term for it was the furnace room. Everyone called it Hell, except for the Russians. The Russians did not work in the furnaces, throwing coal into the flames for hours and hours. They weren't the ones who went home with burns up and down their arms. They were the guards, watching the workers suffer.

Covered in ashy smears and sweat, Raivis made his way up to the outside world. Behind him, he heard the roar of the never-ending fire. To anyone else, they would only hear the fire cracking and begging for fuel. Raivis learned to notice the soft whispers of Polish and Lithuanian, the forbidden languages. There was a Russian shout, and the whispers disappeared. That was the way everything ended in Hell – with a Russian voice.

Raivis took his paycheck from the hands of the rude foreman, mumbling something of a thank-you. He would have rather punched the man, but Toris told him to stay on his best behavior. If Raivis made one mistake, that would be the end.

Once he'd been checked over by the guards – as if Raivis was going to steal a handful of coal – he was free to go. Although he'd been working since ten the previous day, his day wasn't over. Raivis fished Toris' shopping list from his pocket, preparing himself to go into the Soviet grey town of Koźani.

Soviet grey was the unofficial name of the color the USSR painted everything. Raivis first saw Soviet grey when he got off the train in Vilnius, holding tight to Toris out of fear he would lose the man in the crowd. The station, which Toris assured him had once been colorful, was all one monotone grey. The countryside was Soviet grey. Their apartment was grey. Even the people seemed grey. Everything in eastern Europe looked like a black and white photograph.

The small store on the street corner was no exception. Raivis took his place in the small queue that had already formed, leaning up against the Soviet grey wall. He saw the woman next to him give him a sideways glare.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" she asked in a sharp voice. Raivis wondered if she was once a teacher; she sounded like one.

"I'm twenty," Raivis said, counting out the bills in his envelope. Once again, there were two rubles less than the bare minimum. Not that it would have mattered if he did get paid enough, as the cost of living was too high for any common person to pay off. "I stopped going to school a long time ago."

"You look like you're twelve."

"I turned twenty last November."

"Are you sure?"

Raivis folded up the envelope, shoving it in his pocket. "Yes, I'm sure. I think I know when my own birthday is."

Before the old woman could continue, the queue moved. She disappeared inside the store, and Raivis was left standing on a dirty sidewalk in a Soviet grey town.

When he was younger, Raivis dreamed of doing something with his life. He wanted to be a movie star, one of the strong men he saw on the posters in Riga. Every day when he walked to the awful factory, he would stop and stare at Clark Gable and John Wayne. Raivis thought that by the time he was twenty, he wouldn't be working in a factory anymore. He would be the next star, working in Moscow or Paris or maybe even America.

However, Raivis was twenty and he was still working in a wretched factory and still a prisoner of the Soviet Union. Nothing had changed.

It was about to. Or so he hoped.

The queue shifted again, and Raivis was allowed inside the store. After a few more minutes of waiting – something Russians were fond of – he finally made it to the front counter.

"Good morning, _Zuikuti,"_ the woman at the counter said, using Raivis' Lithuanian nickname. The Lithuanians adored him, mostly because he spoke their language. "I haven't seen you for a long time."

"I started working nights," Raivis said, handing her the list. She nodded, understanding what was going on.

"You're so grown up for such a young boy." The woman took the list from him, turning and starting to pull things from the shelves. "And how is Toris doing? Darius told me he's still sick."

"He's getting better," Raivis replied. Toris taught him that it was wrong to lie; Toris wasn't always right. Sometimes, it was better to lie than to give someone the truth.

"Oh, good. Poor thing's been sick for a long time." The woman put everything down on the counter and Raivis handed her most of the rubles from the envelope. "Take care of yourself, _Zuikuti_ ," she said as she counted out the money. She slipped some of it back to Raivis.

 _Don't die, little rabbit._

"I will," Raivis said, gathering up the dull Soviet grey packages. As soon as he stepped outside, it started raining. Fat drops fell onto his shoulders and the packages, leaving spots on his clothes.

The apartment lobby was empty, thankfully. Raivis came in soaking wet, grey raindrops rolling down from his dirty face. The doorman gave him a peculiar look, but the doorman was a Russian and Raivis was used to getting looks from Russians.

After running up three flights of stairs, he came to the apartment door and gave it a gentle knock. If he knocked too hard, Toris would think it was someone else and Raivis would have to stand outside for hours. There was a delicate balance with Toris, one that had to be respected.

"Toris, it's Raivis," he called as he opened the door. "I'm home from work." Raivis set the groceries down on the table, looking around for Toris. He wasn't in the kitchen or the living room, leaving him with only a bathroom and a bedroom to hide in.

"Toris?" He went down the hallway, peeking into the tiny bedroom. Toris was sitting on the bed, a letter and a few photographs strewn out in front of him. An envelope was ripped open, tossed carelessly on the floor.

"You're home," Toris said in a not-good kind of voice.

"I am. I got paid today, and I went to the store, like you told me to." Raivis went over to the bed, climbing up beside Toris. "The lady at the store says she's worried about you. You haven't shown your face for a long time."

It had been a month since Toris last stepped outside the apartment. He spent the month curled up in bed, not saying much of anything. After so many years of being the parent and taking responsibility, Toris just stopped.

Toris shrugged. "Why should I? No one wants to see a mur–"

"When I was walking here, I saw a cat," Raivis interrupted. "It was a cute black one with white paws. Alfred told me he had a cat like that named Freedom."

"I thought it was Liberty."

"It probably was Liberty. Every American word sounds the same to me. And you've got a better memory than me," Raivis said, picking up the letter. It was in Polish, one of the few languages he couldn't read. "You're reading this again, aren't you?"

"We should go," Toris said, picking up the photos. "His name is Francis Bonnefoy. He says he'd like us to come visit him. He says he knows Feliks and Eduard."

Raivis tried to read the letter, understanding every other word. And sure enough, the name Francis Bonnefoy was at the bottom of the page. And he saw Feliks and Eduard's names thrown in between the scramble of Polish. Even though one or both were dead. "People lie, Toris. He's probably a Soviet spy."

"So what? He knows Feliks. That's worth it to me." Toris pointed to a word. " _Znajomi._ Friends. He's not holding them ransom."

"Did this Francis send the pictures, too?"

Toris nodded, handing the photos over to Raivis. The first one was of a small farmhouse in the middle of a huge wheat field. The second was a light-haired boy riding a dark horse, a huge smile on the boy's face. And the last was of a younger Toris, about Raivis' age, balancing on a fallen tree over a creek. A younger Ivan was behind him, his shirt missing and the pink scarf wrapped around his neck.

"Look at how happy he is," Toris whispered, taking the picture of him and Ivan. "He's alive. He doesn't look like every day is miserable. That's who I loved."

"We can't think about this now," Raivis said. He pried the photo from Toris' hand, gathering up the other two and the letter. He shoved them in his pocket, wondering how this Francis got a hold of those photos.

"He was happy, once. We all were happy," Toris said. He fell back on the bed, his hazy green eyes looking up at the ceiling. "Even in the stalag, we were happy."

Raivis got up, grabbing his bag from where he left it on the floor. "Are you okay talking today? You were crying last night."

"When we stole Roderich's file, I spent the night in Ivan's room." So it looked like Toris was willing to talk. "We got in some sort of fight about…What am I saying, you're too young to understand these things." A slight grin tugged at the corner of Toris' lips. "Did you ever hear him laugh, Raivis?"

"No, not really. I wasn't around him enough."

"I miss that laugh more than anything. That morning, I said something to him before roll call and he laughed. I don't even remember what I said." Toris covered his eyes with his hands. "God, I don't remember what I said!"

Raivis put his hand on Toris' shoulder. "You're fine. Come on, we need to go if we're going to catch the train."

"What if I told him I hated him? What if I said, 'I hope Gilbert shoots you in the head' and he thought that was so damn funny because he knew it was happening?" Toris asked.

"I'm sure you didn't say that," Raivis said. "Let's go," he urged again.

"But what if I did?"

It was always a game of what-ifs with Toris. "Listen to me," Raivis said. "I'm very tired right now, okay? I worked nights just so we could do this. I don't want to miss our chance."

He felt Toris sigh beneath his hand. "I don't want to stay here anymore, Raivis," he said. "I can't stay here. Not with Ivan and you and everything else. I don't want to hear Russian anymore. It's making me go insane."

"Which is why we're leaving. Trust me, you'll love Paris. It's the city of romance, isn't it? And I can already say 'I love you' in French."

"Can we go to Vienna? Maybe this Bonnefoy person can help us –"

"No, Toris, I'm not taking you to Vienna," Raivis said. "That Bonnefoy person is trying to get us killed."

Toris paused for a moment. "I can handle Vienna," he said at last, as if that was the end of the conversation. As if he was still the parent.

"I'll think about it, alright?" Raivis said without meaning it. He went into the kitchen, picking up the groceries and shoving them into a second bag. Toris appeared in the entryway a moment later, his own bag slung over his shoulder.

"Ivan said Vienna is beautiful in the summer. He told me about it once when I was sick."

"That's nice," Raivis mumbled. "You can tell me all about it on the train."

"…Am I sick now?" Toris asked, his words thick with worry. "I heard you talking to someone outside yesterday. You said that I was sick."

Raivis looked over at Toris. He stood like a child waiting for his mother after school, his frail hands clutching tight to the straps of the bag. He reminded Raivis of the shades in Heracles' stories of the Odyssey. A pale ghost of a soul, waiting forever in the Underworld. Waiting for Ivan in Hell. While Raivis dragged himself up from Hell, Toris pushed himself down further and further every day.

"Yes, Toris." Raivis reached over and took Toris' hand in his. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that they were in the stalag. "You're sick. You'll get better in Paris. I promise."

* * *

 _Hollandstraße 3, 1027._

Gilbert stood in front of the building, clutching the scrap of paper in his hand. When he took the address out of his palm, the ink left ghostly traces of a Chopin piece on his pale skin. He wiped the notes away, cursing the dead composer.

Seven years after his first leave, Gilbert returned to Vienna. He liked to remember Vienna as a wonderful city where he met his wife, but the memories did nothing to fight against reality. Gilbert was the enemy in his own country, the hunted instead of the hunter.

Now, Gilbert prayed one thing hadn't changed.

The little bell over the door jingled when Gilbert pushed the door open. He stepped inside, fully expecting to be shot for showing his face. Instead, he was met with the gentle lilt of French. A young man sat in a chair beside the front desk, talking to another man behind the front desk.

Their half-conversation stopped when the man realized someone was standing in the entryway. He turned and looked at Gilbert, his hand already reaching for a weapon.

"Beilschmidt," the short man growled.

"Basch, right?" Gilbert said. "I'm happy to see you alive."

"I should kill you," Basch said without a hint of sarcasm. "You've got no damn reason to come here. Haven't you already done enough to us?"

Gilbert wasn't expecting anything less. He'd come prepared to run from the police. "I'm not here to interfere, if that's the idea you've got stuck in your head. I'm here because I'm trying to get out of this shit country."

"You don't want to get dragged off to Nuremberg for war crimes? How many people did you kill in your stalag? Hundreds? Thousands?"

"I never killed any –"

"Ivan Braginsky," Basch snapped. "You've mentally killed Toris Laurinaitis. You indirectly killed Roderich, and Lukas, and Natalya, and my sister. You almost killed me, my cousin, and Mathias here. Aren't you satisfied yet?"

"I could've died!" Mathias added. "Do you know how miserable the world would be then?"

"I didn't come here to kill anyone," Gilbert said, matching Basch's tone. "I came here to get a visa. Tell me whether you'll give me one or not."

Basch laughed, taking his hand out of his pocket where Gilbert assumed a gun was. "I'm sure as hell not going to give you one. I'd rather give Himmler a pass than give you a pfennig." He stepped away from the desk, coming over to Gilbert. Said Prussian tried not to stare at the scar over Basch's exposed collarbone or the strange marks on his palms. Basch grabbed Gilbert's tie, pulling him in close.

"Let me put this simply for you," he said with a mock smile. "Leave and never return, you pathetic excuse of a Nazi."

"Are we having another fight?" someone called out from the hallway. "I'll put five marks on Basch!"

Basch dropped Gilbert, pinning the man to the wall. "God, Al, you have the most incredible sense of timing. Take Mathias out Francis so I can beat up this bastard."

"Don't treat me like a child," Mathias said. "I'm older than you."

"Would you like to introduce me to your friend?" Gilbert growled, leaning just enough so he could see the blond man standing in the hallway. Basch put his hand over Gilbert's face; it was too late.

"Hochstetter?" Gilbert said, his heart skipping a beat.

"I don't go by that name any –"

"Shut up!" Basch took his hand from Gilbert's eyes, moving it to his shoulder. "Just shut up and get out of here before you make a bigger mess. Don't let the Blond Crew come out here."

"Oh, right, Francis sent me out here to tell you about that," Hochstetter said, blatantly ignoring Basch. "You see, Eduard's heading off to Konigsberg tonight and needs someone to take him to the station. Francis is busy and Feliks has some meeting and Toris isn't doing too great, so I nominated you."

Gilbert saw Basch roll his green eyes. "If you shut up and leave, I'll take Eduard."

"I knew you had it in you to be a good person. Isn't that right, whoever is being strangled by Herr…" Hochstetter's voice trailed off. He looked like someone had slapped him. "Colonel Beilschmidt?"

"The one and only," Gilbert said shortly before Basch elbowed him in the chest.

"No, this is some other albino I pulled off the streets," Basch corrected. "Go back with Francis and forget you saw anything. And you too, Mathias."

Hochstetter seemed to be as bad at listening as he always had been. He came over to Basch, staring at the man pinned up against the wall. Gilbert gave him a little wave with his free hand.

"What are you doing here?" Hochstetter asked.

"I'm trying to get a visa. This country isn't safe anymore. I didn't realize you lot were so hostile, though," Gilbert replied, earning himself another sharp elbow to the ribs. Basch glared at him, asking for Gilbert to speak up again.

Hochstetter put his hand on Basch's shoulder. "Excuse me, Herr Zwingli, do you think you could let the colonel go? I want to talk to him for a few minutes. And then you can beat him up," he added, making Gilbert lose a lot of faith in the tiny man.

Basch looked from Gilbert to Hochstetter to the man who was sitting behind the front desk – Mathias? Was that his name? Slowly, Basch took his arm from Gilbert's chest. His hand went to the pocket where the gun was.

" _Danke,"_ Gilbert said, glancing over at Hochstetter once he was sure Basch wasn't going to shoot him. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Hochstetter nodded. "Two years. By the way, I'm not Albert anymore, even though Zwingli keeps calling me that. Tino Väinämöinen, pleasure to re-meet you," he said, holding out his hand.

"Likewise, Tino," Gilbert said as he took the man's hand. It felt wrong to call him by a different name, or even to see him out of SS uniform. "How in God's name did you end up with these brutes?"

Tino glanced over at Basch, as if asking for permission to speak. "Francis found me when they were rounding up Gestapo people. Hid me in his apartment for a while. Now I'm working here. I'm not too good with math, but I can manage," he said with a smile. "I'm like a second secretary, really. Mathias over there tells me everything I need to do."

"You're almost independent," Mathias said. "I'm sorry about Basch, Herr Beilschmidt. He's usually a moderate jerk, not a complete asshole."

"Don't go apologizing for me," Basch snarled. "Listen, Al, you have five minutes to get this, this animal out of here," he said, glaring at Gilbert. "I'll let you have your reunion for five minutes. I don't ever want him in here after that. Understand?"

Tino nodded. "Completely understood."

Basch shook his head, muttering something in French before storming off down the hall. Gilbert wished he would've paid attention in French class.

Tino waited until a door slammed, taking Gilbert by the wrist. "Mathias, if he comes out, tell him I've gone to walk the colonel here home. Don't let him go back to the boss."

"Got it. Good luck, Herr Beilschmidt," Mathias said. "You're going to need a ton of it."

Luck? What was Tino or Hochstetter or whoever he was dragging Gilbert into?

Before Gilbert could ask, he was being led down the hallway. At the very end of the hallway, Tino came to a stop and knocked on the last door, and Gilbert had no chance to object to whatever torture he was about to face.

"We need two visas for America or some seriously good name changes," Tino said, shoving Gilbert into the room.

"Oh, _mon dieu_."

In the small office, there were five people that Gilbert had met at some point in his life. Raivis was sprawled out over a couch, a French pinup magazine in hand. Toris was sitting on the floor beside Raivis, along with Feliks. Dozens of papers were laid out on the floor between them. Eduard was sifting through a file cabinet – he'd started to pull one from the mess. And sitting at the huge desk, the crown jewel of the room, was Francis Bonnefoy.

Gilbert assumed this was the aforementioned Blond Crew, except Toris' hair was nowhere near blond. He wondered Basch was colorblind.

"Basch tried to punch his face in," Tino explained, giving Gilbert a nudge forward. Francis sighed, mustering a sad smile.

"I'm sorry you had to be greeted with that, Herr Beilschmidt," he said. "Everyone except for Herr Beilschmidt, please leave. Make sure Basch isn't punching another hole in the wall."

"You never let us have any fun," Raivis muttered as he got up. "It's good to see you, Commandant. Toris and I were –"

"Leaving," Toris finished for him. He gave Gilbert a look, one that told the Prussian that he hadn't forgotten June 6th.

When the room was empty, Francis got up from the desk and came over to Gilbert. "He doesn't mean anything rude," he said. "Toris is just, well, he's not always right in the head."

"Because of me," Gilbert said, looking down at the floor. He'd only met Francis once, with Elizabeta. Even then, Francis had a sort of power about him that made Gilbert feel small. That feeling was a thousand times worse at the moment.

"We're all at fault in this," Francis said.

"You're not going to blame me?" Gilbert asked. Everyone he used to know seemed to hate him or be rather mad at him for something he did years ago. "Because I was the one who messed this up."

"Pinning the blame on someone solves nothing." Francis went to his desk, motioning for Gilbert to join him. "Visas to America, right?" he asked. "Or Argentina? Tino doesn't know the difference between the two yet."

"America. And you call him Tino?"

Francis nodded. "He doesn't want to be Hochstetter anymore, and I respect that. Let bygones be bygones. Now, listen, visas to America are hard to get," he said. "Especially since you have a German name and a bit of a history."

"I don't even need to get to America. Anywhere outside of Europe would be fine," Gilbert said, hating himself for sounding so desperate. But it was the truth, wasn't it? He hadn't come all the way to Vienna, spent a month in the house of a Nazi sympathizer, and risked his life to walk to Hollandstraße.

"And you've got such a unique look," Francis said to himself. "A name change won't work." He pulled open a drawer in his desk, taking a stack of papers out. "So, how's Elizabeta doing?"

"She's fine, I guess. Still a bit torn up about everything."

"Everyone is. It's only been a year. I do have to apologize for Roderich's behavior, even though he's…" Francis trailed off, taking a paper from the stack. "I don't know what got into him that night. I told him not to go, and he ignored me."

"It doesn't matter. I'm sorry about what happened with everyone," Gilbert said, feeling the guilt creep into his words. "I know an apology's not going to fix anything, but I truly am sorry."

Francis put the rest of the papers in his desk, starting to fill out the first one. "No, _mon cher_ , don't apologize. You were doing what you thought was right."

"Um, I brought something for you," Gilbert said, reaching into his pocket. He took out the little swastika pin, handing it to Francis. "It's Roderich's. I found it at the stalag."

Francis turned the gold pin over in his hand, his smile wavering. Gilbert wondered if he did the right thing, bringing it to him. "You keep it," he said, putting the pin back in Gilbert's hands. "I already have too many of Roderich's things. And in a few years, you could sell that for thousands on the black market."

"This belongs to you. I mean, you're what's left of Roderich's family. I feel wrong having it."

"Keep it as a reminder. So you never turn back." Francis handed him a few papers. "That will get you to London with a different name. After that, it's up to you where you go on to. All I ask is that you never tell anyone who got you your papers and you don't turn back. You have the chance to get out of here. Take it."

Gilbert looked down at the forms in his hands, the forms that would get him across the English Channel. "Why don't you leave?" he asked, looking up at Francis. "You have the power to. If you can get me and Elizabeta to London, you could get yourself to New York."

"I have an obligation to this job. I've been doing it since I was seventeen and decided to make myself a fake name for fun. I figure if I can help whoever needs it, I'll be happy with my life," Francis said. "I don't know if I'm making that much of a difference in the world. I'm making a difference in a few lives. And that's all that matters to me."

"Even if you're making a difference in a Nazi's life?"

Francis smiled, twisting one of his curls around his finger. "Everyone deserves a second chance. I'm not like my dear cousin. I believe in forgiveness, and I believe that people can change," he said. "Of course, you could walk out of here and turn me in to the Russians. You could very easily break my trust. I don't think you will."

"Why do you trust me?" Gilbert said, not quite understanding the man. "I'm the one who killed half of your family."

"We're humans, Gilbert. Humans make horrible mistakes. However, you can get past your mistakes and do something great with your life. And I feel like you have a great future ahead of you."

Gilbert looked at the forms and the pin in his hands. His past and the key to the future. "Thank you so much," he said. "Is there something I can do to repay you?"

"Please stay in touch. Send me a letter once in a while telling me you're not dead. Will you be leaving tonight?" Francis asked.

"No, it'll take us a while to get everything together. We'll be gone by August."

"Good, the sooner you leave, the better." Francis smiled once again, but the grin quickly faded as he glanced at the clock. "Oh, _mon cher_ , you did drive here, didn't you?"

"No, I walked," Gilbert said. "I'll be fine going home. It's almost dark."

"Get Tino to take you home," Francis said as he opened the door. Basch was waiting outside, his arms folded over his chest. He locked eyes with Gilbert, running a finger over his throat. "I don't want you getting arrested," Francis continued without regarding Basch. "I don't think there's many other people roaming around Vienna with white hair and red eyes."

As Gilbert walked down the hall, he heard Basch and Francis go into the office. They didn't close the door, as if they were inviting him into their conversation.

"You're going to get us killed," Basch hissed.

"He was innocent and scared. I couldn't say no."

"Innocent? He's the one who killed Roderich!"

There was a long pause before Francis continued. "I'm giving him a chance, Basch. You should give him one, too."

* * *

One person brought together so many people with different stories.

Basch noticed this the day everyone left.

That morning, everyone showed up at Basch's house for breakfast. Francis was up at three in the morning to start cooking for everyone, which drove Basch insane. He went out to the kitchen to tell Francis to calm down and somehow got drafted into the cooking army.

The kitchen table was nowhere near big enough to hold ten people; they made it work. By seven, everyone was gathered around the table, talking about the future and America and so many other hopeful things that Basch couldn't help feeling positive for once. They were ten people with some of the worst lives, and they were laughing and joking with each other.

For a rare time in his life, Basch felt everything was okay.

After breakfast, they walked to the station. A year ago, Basch got off at the same station. He came back from the dead, found his family, and struggled through the losses of so many. Everyone came to Vienna through that train station, and now they were leaving.

The first person to say goodbye was Tino. Little tiny Tino, the ex-Gestapo agent who was off to start a new life in Mannheim.

"I'm really sorry about everything," Tino said for the thousandth time to Gilbert. "He was my best friend."

"Don't beat yourself up, kid. Have a good life, okay?" Gilbert said, pulling the man into a hug. "Do the opposite of what Ludwig wanted you to do. He was too strict."

Next came Mathias, the man who ran the biggest Underground operation and watched his best friend get shot on a street in Copenhagen.

"Call me if you're still interested in buying the Kübelwagen. We could go on a road trip together," Mathias said with tears in his eyes.

"Where are you going to find a Kübelwagen in Denmark?" Basch asked.

Mathias shrugged, wiping at his face. "You never know. Maybe someone left one layin' around."

Feliks, Eduard, Toris, and Raivis all left together, on one train headed for Paris. From there, they had no clue what they were going to do.

"Thanks for everything, Basch," Feliks said, clutching his box to his chest. The box Basch kept like a dark secret for years, full of letters to Toris. "You saved my life."

And lastly, Basch said goodbye to Gilbert and Elizabeta.

"I still hate you," Basch said with a half-smile. Gilbert returned the smile in full.

"I hate you too, Zwingli. I'm glad we can all come to terms on something."

"I do want you to have this, though," Basch said, holding up the violin case he found under his porch. "It's Roderich's Stradivarius from Hitler. I don't have any use for a violin, so I figured you two should keep it. Carry on the legacy."

Elizabeta took the violin from him. "Thank you, Basch," she said. "I'm surprised you kept it so long without selling it."

"I should've, but I've got a good heart. There's some pictures and music in the case, too. Things I thought you should have. Oh, and Beilschmidt?" he said, looking over at Gilbert. "Thanks for arresting me in 1941. It was one of the best damn things that happened to me."

"Thank you for letting me arrest you," Gilbert said with a laugh. "I hope something goes right for you sometime. I almost feel bad about the shit life you've got."

"He'll be fine, as long as he's with me," Francis said. Somehow, Basch believed him.

They said a few more goodbyes to the Beilschmidts, and that was the end of it. As the people Roderich Edelstein brought together scattered to start new lives, Basch and Francis were left in the same place as before.

"Do you want to go to your house or mine?" Francis asked as they walked out of the station.

"Let's go to your house. I want to stop in Rudolfspark first. I found a half bottle of rum and figured no one was going to drink it."

The walk to Rudolfspark gave Basch plenty of time to think over everything. Mostly the people he said goodbye to and their stories and how they all came back to Roderich Edelstein. One man who wanted to play music brought the strangest people together in one city, and then sent them away.

The two reached the grove in Rudolfspark where the small tombstone lay in the overgrown grass. Few people even knew about the grove, so it rarely had visitors. Basch took the bottle of rum out of his pocket, laying it down next to the headstone. It wasn't so much a headstone for one person, but for several.

Roderich Edelstein died at barely twenty-seven.

Lukas Bondevik died just offshore of the freedom of Sweden.

Natalya Arlovskya was put in front of a firing squad in Warsaw without a blindfold.

Lilli Zwingli never made it to the Swiss border. The Gestapo took her off the train and she was sent to somewhere to die.

"I didn't even know him," Basch said at last, looking over at Francis.

"Neither did I. Just when I thought I knew Roderich, he surprised me."

Basch kicked at the dirt, wondering what it must've been like for Roderich on June 7th. "I told you about how I heard his voice in Mauthausen, right?"

"Ja. Do you think it was him?" Francis asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was his voice because that was the only one I remembered. The whole time while we were walking from the labor camp, I thought about how much he would be complaining," Basch said with grin. "Probably kept me alive."

"I think he kept everyone alive. Feliks told me he was going to kill himself at one point. He stopped because he thought about how Roderich would react. He stayed up for hours talking with Mathias. He helped me put together the missions for Operation Edelweiss. He did Lilli's homework for her. He told you to walk out of Mauthausen. That man saved us."

Basch swallowed hard. "What do you think it would've been like if he didn't die?"

"Awful. Everyone today stopped hating each other because they all had one thing in common: They knew Roderich and they were part of how he died," Francis said. "He made peace in the most Roderich way possible."

"Do you think people are going to keep playing his music?"

Francis nodded. "People aren't immortal. Music lives forever. And his was so different, so beautifully different."

 _Just like us,_ Basch thought as he looked down at the grave. _We're beautifully different._

"When I was a kid, I used to flip to the end of books and read the last couple of pages," Basch said. "I wanted to make sure everything turned out okay."

"I don't think you understand how books work," Francis said with a bit of a laugh in his voice.

"No, hear me out on this one. If the book ended with a funeral or someone getting shot, I didn't bother to read it. If it ended with cowboys riding off into the sunset and things like that, I read every word," Basch said.

"Where are you going with this?"

"I thought my story was going to end with a funeral when I was in Mauthausen. Even before then, I thought everything was going to end with the war. And look at where we are now. We're standing in front of a grave talking about peace and harmony."

Francis looked over at Basch, his blue eyes twinkling. Basch used to dream about seeing those blue eyes one more time. "Is this the happy ending that you wanted?"

"No, this isn't anywhere close to it. But we're okay. We have each other."

Francis put his arm around Basch, holding him close. "Thank God for Roderich," he said. "He must've got to you if you're being so optimistic."

"Ja," Basch said. "Thank God for our alcoholic composer."

* * *

 **A/N: And so, our story comes to a close.**

 **I cannot express how much I despise this story. There are no words for it.**

 **And yet, I love this story.**

 **When I first started writing this, I had no plan. I just went with it. Everything you have been reading thus far is the first draft. There was almost zero planning put into every chapter. I went with what I felt like that day. Only the last five chapters have had actual plans.**

 **In part, that is why I hate this story. It could have been something so better if I put the time into it. But I didn't, and it is what it is. If I truly did have the time, I think this story would have turned out much different.**

 **This story is also largely based on real events and real people. Excluding the obvious, the reason I skipped from 1941 to 1944 is a man I know who was telling a story and skipped four years. I asked him why, and he said, "Lord, do you really want to hear about a boring old man's life? You got to cut right to the action and skip over the bullshit." So you all can thank my grandfather for how the story fell into place.**

 **Art mimics life, though. And ARS mimics a lot of what was going on in my life at the time. If you reread some chapters, you can see my biases and thoughts slipping through. Don't go do that. This story is too long for that.**

 **Even though I hate this story, I have no plans to rewrite the fanfiction form. I am, however, working on a real, non-copyrighted book. Don't know how well that'll go over, but I'll give it a good try!**

 **Thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this! You all are amazing people, and I can't ever thank you enough.**

 **Please come back and check out my profile once in a while! I have a lot of things planned, and I can't wait to show them off.**

 **Thank you's go to HetaRosFangirl, browsofglory, ABCSKW123-IX, everythingisdragons, exca314, Bob and co, Deadlynightshade41, Hinotorihime, Zeawesomepasta, NordicsAwesome, Raihannn, and my beloved Swing-Stole-My-Heart! You all are awesome!**

 **See you hopefully soon!**


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